Fierce Fictional Fraternal Fallout

That dormant feeling of insecurity arose, when travel journal got thrust adjacent to my tattered (holey tattooed) clothes while I knew with crossed eyes aroused anger from peaceful doze my younger sister felt about her globe trotting exploits, an over expose jour ever since voyaging out on her own after graduating top of her class where mine hatred glows indirectly snidely sneering at ma dough less brother hoboes (a 1979 Methacton High School alumni), unanimously chosen valedictorian dressed in Calvin Klein Harris tweed, couture and silk panty hose like me prolonging, promoting on par with quasi staff sergeant, who knows artful disciplinarian gingerly launching rules, asper formerly commanding G.I. Joes and pronouncing, predilection exhaling natural highs no lows traveling solo, with surviving Wilburys, or just mows zing nonchalantly (though a foreigner) with swarthy skin color easily camouflaging as civilian all points on the compass, where minute needle doth nose upon returning home (being honorably feted at once glorious estate of Glen Elm, where she did propose to the Lord Taylor (swiftly), which location situated at 324 Level Road, Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426), thence a great huzzah a rose an immediate nauseousness welled within from me head tummy smelly toes I did not want to here, or see any details, which would accentuate personal woes popping, snapping, and smarting, and slapping skin raw tib bits, ache'n to yanked strings of mama's heirloom yo-yos! Poet Script: trials and tribulations, visited upon head of young concocted ("FAKE") gusty and gutsy kid sister enterprising ingenue, christened easy on the tongue Sharodd (not her real name), to top off talents sung like a professional opera singer, which rung a shiver along small hairs of spine did tingle heard all the way to Lake Woebegone where bachelor farmers did mingle every Christmas, a decreasing number donned Kris Kringle hit with blitzkrieg of yawping brats hoof pranced to bell weather jingle!