I want to be helpful, but I'm not. I'm horrible. Moody in the worst way if you stumble in to ask for help when I'm not expecting it. You'll receive such a glare that you'll consider crawling beneath a rock. Clearly, that is where I wish you were already. It's awful. Embarrassing as well is the fact that I am by nature quite disruptive. I don't mean to be. It's just that my time is simply more valuable than yours. I obviously shouldn't be kept waiting. You, on the other hand... yeah.
Come to think of it, this began in the fifth grade when I discovered the Sweet Valley High books and had to hide my reading material of choice from my mother. She thought we were still on the Nancy Drew kick, but those were my cover. I stayed up late, muffling Allison's complaints from the bottom bunk as I read by the light of my green alarm clock. Crabby with bloodshot eyes, I awoke each morning with a foul attitude and realized one day that I could glower my eyes in such a way as to frighten off my siblings. What a cruel and proud moment. And I only grew from there. Now, twenty odd years later (I won't scare you with my math), I've seen George hesitate outside my door. I have to be honest, that doesn't always fill me with guilt. It's not like he's jumping up to help with the dishes. (Had to get one dig in there for equality purposes.)
Nonetheless, I've been trying to work on my terrible attitude for George, who has the patience of a saint when it comes to my special projects. The tasks I surprise him with while he watches TV on the weekend. More than I imagined, it's difficult to wrangle my withering glare when I hear his footsteps approach my reading sanctuary. It's become a self-defense mechanism I'm not proud of. But I keep trying. I want to help him the way he helps me. Reluctantly, sometimes, yes. That's okay. He shows me he loves me by plodding along, occasionally issuing a sigh, but smiling before long.