I can't love my sister. She was adopted. I was an accident. My mother, confounded by can openers, cooks her gourmet meals. For me, she points - bowl, spoon, Spaghetti-O's. She's pampered, powdered, and perfumed by professionals. My grooming regime includes manicure scissors and another bowl. Her clothes: virgin wool, hand knit, specialty catalogs. Mine: Wal-Mart clearance. She's got a lifetime trust fund. Me? Working papers for my tenth birthday. She's allowed to kiss on the mouth and hump stranger's legs, even if she pees on the floor. I hate that four-legged butt licker, and we do NOT look just alike!