My oldest brother was 20 years old when I was born. As a result, he was already out of the house by the time I have any memories.
One year, when I was a little kid, my family all piled into our van to pick him up from college. It was 12 hours of monotony ... 12 hours of staring out the window, counting the 132,725th weed passing by on the side of the road.
Because of this blog's title, you can all guess what my problem is.
I was in a van with a neverending monologue and a captive audience. The rest of my family had been living with me, and they all knew how to survive by ignoring me and periodically muttering some non-committal grunt of acknowledgement to keep me thinking they were actually listening.
My dear, sweet oldest brother made the mistake of claiming the seat next to me for the trip home. By the time we pulled into our driveway, he stumbled out of the car, dizzy from the 12 hours of verbage I had just spewed at him.
That's when my other family members realized no one had told him how to survive a trip with me.
He has since learned his lesson.