Jessica Rabbit

My children are off-limits, though. They are too young and too innocent for me to begin picking them apart on a webpage that anyone can read. Until I can be sure that what I say won't hurt them, I should say nothing at all about them, except for the fact that they are young and innocent and as yet undamaged by life. I will keep them so, for as long as I can.

So I'll talk about my sister, instead--the one I'm referring to as Jessica Rabbit.

I'm not sure where to begin. She writes about me all the time, and she is always effortlessly generous in her portrayal. I am always the brightest, the best, the most bountifully kind big sister who ever lived, a genius with words, a genie at granting wishes, everything she would like to be and is not, with all the coolest friends, and wittiest comments, and cleverest thoughts. She tells me I am beautiful, when I have always been squinty-eyed and chubby; she tells me I am good, when I have always been cruel and self-centred.

The reality is that my sister is, if not all, certainly many of the things I would like to be. She is tall and strong and evenly-formed, with long legs and pert breasts and a generally hourglass-shaped figure. Her skin is pale and perfect, well not perfect, but smooth and clean and soft, and she has big blue eyes that glitter like diamonds and bright soft hair that shines like the sun. Her lips are better than mine--fuller, plumper, less prone to frowning. The curve of her jaw and cheek has fascinated me for years; when I look in the mirror, I see my own slashing cheekbones and square-jawed intensity, and I long for the soft suppleness of my sister's features.

Growing up, we used to joke (in the tasteless way that children do) that she was a member of the German elite, and I was a fat (my word, not hers) little Jewish princess. I understood the compliment she was implying--she sees me as exotic, quirky, unique--but it was overwritten by her sheer physical superiority.

Yes. I am a little exotic-looking, in the right light and with a little make-up and if I'm at one of the slimmer stages of my life. And I have an odd sense of who I am, which makes me periodically attractive to a variety of interesting people.

She is genuinely lovely to look at, and curvy, and has better breasts and better legs and a better face and is generally more likable. She is sometimes something of a people-pleaser, and has mastered the art of sincere compliments and tactful let-downs; anyone can see that her heart is in the right place and that she is fiercely, overwhelmingly loyal to those she loves and faultlessly kind to those she's only just met. Everyone, common or cultured, base or blase, average or august, likes her.

I am known for saying what I think. Generous people think I'm honest; honest people think I'm blunt; harsh or sensitive people think I'm damn rude.

My sister, on the other hand, is known for saying what she should. What will make people feel better. What will help the situation.

We make a fine pair. I piss people off, she soothes their wounded egos. I bring friends into our circle, she makes sure they never want to leave. I come up with ideas, she brings them to fruition.

All this, and she has friends and ideas and thoughts of her own, and they're at least as good (and often better) than mine. It is her generosity of spirit that makes me into the intellectually superior of the two of us--and even her generosity can't make me the more physically attractive.

As usual, life has conspired to make the prettier of two sisters also the more popular, the more creative, the more musically-gifted, the more pleasant to be around. Oh I've got a little bit of something, I grant you that, and if you know me I'll bet you that you like me almost in spite of yourself, even though you don't know why... but there is nothing so sweet, so purely thoughtful, so simply enjoyable about me, as there is about her.

And let's not forget. Physically, she's a 5' 10" Jessica Rabbit type, and I'm more like the real-life embodiment of... of... there's not even a cartoon character that corresponds to me, I'm that boring.

Though, personality-wise, I'm like a cross between Droopy Dog, Garfield, and Ren. Which is interesting. Different. Unique.

These are the words you learn at a very young age, when you're as weird as I am.

But I'd so much rather be all the things I say about my sister. Kind-hearted. Attractive. Has groovy hair. Plays a musical instrument or three. Can read music, which after 8 years of chorus is still beyond my ability. Good at math. Good at lab sciences. Can actually draw/paint/sketch, at least enough to pass a highschool art class. Is outgoing. Sets people at ease, effortlessly.

And yet. There's still a hint of something broken, something not quite right, about my sister. She doubts herself, at a level that's so deep and so secret few of her friends would even realise it's there. Like me, like my parents, in spite of all her natural talents and qualities, my sister has not yet managed to attain the life she wants, largely due to her own inner demons.

Still. Out of the four of us, she's the youngest, and arguably the one with the most drive, the greatest determination. If there's hope for anyone, there's hope for her, and because of the person she is, she will eventually make the most of it. I hope.