“So what are you gonna be when you grow up?” Gramps asked. Sammy answered instanly. He wanted to be a alien doctor. What the hell? It didn’t matter. A day later he wanted to be a pro golfer or a vetrinarian or a stinking magician or something else crazy that I knew would never happen. “How creative!” Grandma shouted from the kitchen. She was making those damn cookies again. They always tasted okay but I seemed to picked the ones that were burnt or lumpy or hard. It wasn’t my fault that Sam always took all the good ones. He would take almost all of them and then he would be sugar high for the rest of the damn day. I didn’t care for Sam whenever he got like that. He was pretty unbearable. The only thing more unbearable was when people asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up. But, that’s exactly what Gramps did. He turned his fat head towards me and said “and what about you, Sugar?” I wanted to say “nothing, Fatty!” Instead, I just decided to play with his head. I told him I wanted to be a goddamn poet.