Coup d'Etat in Poronga City

Thumbs up!

My poor abuela. An entire married life surrounded by porongas. The abuelo, her three sons, my two beautiful male cousins. Casual observers might think my abuela was queen among a cast of plebes, but truth is she was condemned to a brutish life catering to the whims of the sexumvirate. Cook, chauffeur, janitor, substitute teacher, babysitter, chaperone, bad cop, and so on.

I've been waiting thirty-eight weeks for this day to arrive. Load my baby bottles with scalding milk and holster them onto my diaper. Make Molotov cocktails stuffed to the brim with poo. Belt out cries like deafening wartime sirens and crawl into their fortress, not afraid—if push comes to shove—to pull off some porongas along the way. My poor abuela will stand by my side armed with her menacing Warrior III pose and tongue-lashing, and together we will lead this rebellion to topple, once and for all, the Jarrin patriarchy.

If revolution fails, there's always psychological warfare. I will bat my minute black eyes and yawn. I will blabber what sounds like Nerudian poetry to my Daddy's ears. I will stretch in the same way a Cypriot Shorthair does when the sun strokes its fur. I will fart in my sleep. The boys will fall under my spell and have no choice but to love me indiscriminately. With them beneath my tiny thumb, my poor abuela will regain her spot atop the hierarchical ladder and rule from here to eternity alongside her Cyprio-Ecuadorian consiglieri.

Lest I forget, now's a good time to drop my first F-bomb. Daddy, fuck island wines. I only drink Burgundy Grand Cru.

Pacifier Out,

Little Miss Despot