There's only one person who understands it all. Who stays up late with you to talk about the boy that sits next to you in class; pulling out the old yearbooks to show him off. Stalking him on Facebook to discern if he really is worth the time.
She's the one person who knows just what to say when you wonder out loud if he likes you back. The person who will sit for hours analyzing what he does all day and giving you advice, expecting only the same in return.
My little sister, who seemed more excited than I when he told me he liked me too. Her help when she decided that she'd dress me up for that first date. Her constant urges to put makeup on my face.
The laughter when she smears the mascara all down my cheek only to do it down the other one because it looks, 'ethnic'.
She's the one who came up with the brilliant idea to fix my bushy eyebrows and ended up cutting half of one off and proceeded to take pictures for documentation.
The excitement of that first kiss, recounting every detail, laughing at the embarrassing parts, unable to stop smiling.
Chasing each other around the house with wooden spoons because she stole one of my shirts. Threatening to never speak to her again, but knowing one of those late night talks about the next adorable moment is on the horizon.
Getting advice when things seem to be going downhill, combatting the uneasiness and the confusion, knowing she'll have all the answers. She may be younger but that says nothing for experience.
She's the person you run to for comfort when you know it's over. She's got the shoulder that catches all of your tears when they break through your careful walls. She's there when you see him for the first time since the last time and she knows all the right words to say.
She's the one with the suggestion of "Let's go burn his house down" and if you said, "okay," She'd pull out the matches and accelerant.
She's the one I stood up for in that McDonald's Play place when a bigger kid was picking on her.
She's the one who made me pasta when I had the swine flu, the one who held my hand when I got stitches. The one who broke my toe right as the fireworks started on the Fourth of July. The one who won't hesitate to go running in the rain and play in the muddle hole down the street with all the neighbor kids.
She's the one for whom I dressed up in my favorite pink dress to go pick her up from the hospital when she was born.
She's always right there. No matter if she poured perfume into my teacup when we were little, if she ruined my favorite blouse, if she doesn't close the door when she goes to the bathroom.
She knows how to make you feel beautiful when you don't think you're good enough, attractive enough, or funny enough. She's always there to remind you that the jerk isn't worthy of you and that you're better off without him. No matter how cliché the phrase.
She's there to tell you that the girl who thinks she's better than you just because she's got him isn't all that great. She's the one that will laugh when you tell her of your plans for revenge and ask what she can do to help.
Her answers might not make sense and they may be strange, but it doesn't matter. She's been through it all and doesn't care when you listen to the song that describes your relationship perfectly five hundred times in a row.
There are times when I want to kill her, but for the past seventeen years I don't know what I would have done without her. For those of you who don't understand how a woman can love her sister so much and want to kill her at the same time, obviously don't have a sister. I wouldn't be the same person that I am today and for that I owe it all to the sisters…