My youngest brother lives and works abroad. It’s cool for him because he gets to travel all over the world, and he’ll often call me from different countries to let me know what’s going on in his life. It’s fun for him because it gives him someone to share his adventures with, but it’s also fun for me because . . . well, I love messing with his head.
You see, my brother is more than a little bit paranoid, and for whatever reason, he believes that while he’s jet setting across the globe, his cell phone calls are most likely monitored. If not by the CIA, then probably some foreign entity who wants to keep track of him to make sure he’s not some sort of super spy. (Trust me, he’s not. I love my brother, but he’s got nothing on James Bond.)
He loves it when I bring up the Dali Lama, while he’s traveling in China. He enjoys it almost as much as when I chant, “What do we want? Oppression! When do we want it? Now!” I can tell I’m helping because he rarely calls from China anymore.
Now everything I just wrote . . . absolute gospel truth. And yes, I know I’m a bit of a dick to my brother, but honestly, it’s the only way I know how to interact with the world, so at this point, I just go with it. But when I think about these interactions, I’m sometimes surprised to find a shred of sentiment at their base. For whatever reason, when my brother starts to get nutty about whether or not someone’s listening in on his phone conversations, it flips this little switch inside my head that makes me want to give a big middle finger to anyone who has an opinion about what I can or cannot say.