I want God to hate me, but in a way a sister hates her sister.

You know, where they fight over who sleeps on the top bunk of the bunk bed or who gets to date Bobby Smith, that hunky quarterback who probably won’t feel me up behind the bleachers Friday night after the game.

God should be reasonable and not freak out every time I borrow her phone to text guys and tell them things my sister would never say, because she’s a freaking coward, like “r u horny?”

At least I’d let God borrow my favorite red dress, and that’s more than I can say for most other people. It really makes those breasts pop.