Photo by Jenn Richardson
As my birthday present this year, my favourite and only known brother decided he’d contribute to our little blog by writing his own piece .
Unfortunately, it turns out he’s not just a nicer person than me, he’s also a better writer.
The Kardashian Kollection: LIVING IN THE SHADOWS OF A SUCCESSFUL SIBLING
From early age it was clear that my sister was going to be an A-list celebrity. As much as my parents tried to instill modesty, she believed that she was the best, and therefore deserved the best. I guess flying around Australia singing at random landmarks for QANTAS didn’t really help. So began the life of a diva, a success story, and my sister.
As children we actually used to be pretty similar. We’d ride our scooters, play board games, and for the most part get along very well. Additionally we looked quite alike, both small, skinny kids with a propensity for cheekiness. Which for myself evolved into horrible puns, and for sister 100% unadulterated sass.
A few years ago she was asked what changed between us, and true to form straight away Little Miss Future A-Lister replied “Well, I got hot and he got acne”. Ouch. I had no idea how to react, but I went with the classic awkward laugh to mask my internal tears.
From then on I knew everything had changed. Not like Taylor Swift/Ed Sheeran-style, but deeper. Growing up I liked to think I was teaching my younger sibling about the world, protecting her from hurt until she was able to fend for herself. In hindsight she was just using me as a tool for her own advantage. I was no longer the sorta-cool goofy big brother who’d crack jokes around her friends, I was an obstacle that needed clearing. I was holding her back, ruining her image, and tainting her important street cred. My sister was better off just ignoring me.
Bridges had been burnt, and consequently she was now free to move on with her life. She moved up north and started enjoying the sunshine state. Honestly it sounds like a tough life, lazing by the pool sipping Tequila Sunrises, complaining to your millions of followers about how hard your life is because you aren’t able to share your day with two boys called Ben and Jerry (whoever they are). You know life is pretty good when the toughest decision you need to make is which filter to use for the photo of your “vegan low-carb gluten-free sugar-free high-fibre” indie lunch, that’s probably served in a recycled ceramic garden pot.
I still can’t believe how quickly you can become “someone” online these days. My sister uploads photos of her legs with bad fake tan on them, complete with the obligatory #traglyf and #struggle, and her follower base grows exponentially. If I put a photo of my legs up on Instagram saying the same, all I’d receive would be comments telling me in no uncertain terms to stop skipping leg day at the gym.
In my sisters’ defense, what else is she to do if she is a solid 8/10 without product and loves luxury? In the words of the world’s most-famous male model, “I’m sorry I was born with this perfect bone structure. That my hair looks better done up with gel and mousse, than hidden under a stupid hat with a light on it!”
Merman indeed. It’s pretty inspiring to see how the little girl who beat me at Monopoly all the time (she never believed, despite my insistences, that the rolls when I landed on Mayfair were actually practice rolls) can now hold a rooms attention in the palm of her hand, with the people hanging off every word coming out of those Rimmel-covered lips #thelondonlook. She just seems to be cool, hip and happening, across everything important to know in the world (86% of which probably concerns herself if you ask her). As you’ve probably gathered from that last sentence, using the words cool, hip and happening to describe someone’s level of social awareness and street smarts paints a pretty clear picture of my capacity in this area. Try as I might, I’m significantly incompetent. My attempts at small talk at classy functions are disastrous. I don’t know what to say to fit in with the popular, upper-class crowd.
Yep. I’m that person who tries to make “fetch” happen, the person whose idea of good small talk is asking “when’s your bin night?”
Whether or not flow is actually flow, my dear sister is clearly well on her way to being a high-class socialite. She’s invited to premieres and prestigious events, gets re-tweeted by people high up in various enterprising industries, and is beloved by the whole of San Diego.
Her work is blooming, she’s smashing her studies, and on a whole her life is flourishing. As you might have started to pick up, I’m actually insanely proud of my sister. There are many reasons why you might think I shouldn’t be, but in reality that couldn’t be further from the truth. Yes she is attention seeking, but she now acknowledges it as part of her personality. Yes she hijacked her speech at my 21st to talk about herself, but everybody found the speech hilarious, so that’s fine as well. She genuinely loves people, and life, and through all her actions shows others how great life can be.
In my book, and more importantly in the good book, she’s getting the job done. In the words of one of our favorite authors:
“We’re all human, aren’t we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving”
To be completely honest, I love it when my sister tells the hot/acne story, because it makes people laugh. I’m happy for her to tear me to shreds with witty remarks, because we all know she doesn’t actually mean it, and its spreading joy to other people. The countless JT singalongs, Beyoncé dance-offs and Best of Tumblr banter sessions we have bring far too much happiness to simply cease our relationship for fear of me “cramping her style” with my lameness. Deep down I know she’ll never want to cut me out in order to achieve her dreams, because as much as I could ruin her potential A-list image with my lack of sweet style, our relationship is worth far more to my sister than any amount of fame or fortune. That’s love.
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also”