In art class, my younger brother drew a portrait of someone he assured me was Albert Einstein, a claim I found… dubious. Our mother called it a masterpiece and insisted on framing it up on the wall in our room.

It was utterly creepy, with horrid nostrils and mismatched eyes that I could swear followed me wherever I went. It was also right above our beds, which meant I got to wake up to a creepy old man staring down at me every day.

Unfortunately, I was naive enough to mention it to my brother, who then gleefully insisted on keeping it there for the next decade. Eventually, we both moved out, and I threw the portrait out during the confusion of packing and moving out.

My brother found out eventually and vowed vengeance, promising that I’d one day regret tossing Einstein out. Nevertheless, those were six happy years spent away from that horrid portrait.

When the recent health crisis got worse, we moved back in to help our mother. The next morning, I woke up to find the portrait staring right down at me once again and freaked out.

Apparently, at some point, my brother had drawn another portrait of Einstein and deliberately made it even creepier than the last — warty nose, mismatched nostrils and eyes, moustache and expression that just screamed “pervert,” and wormy eyebrows. He hung it in the same spot as its predecessor after I went to bed.

I literally had it burned, but the damage was done. As promised, I regret tossing Einstein out. It wasn’t worth being traumatised by its successor.

Growing up, my brother and I often play video games together, with him at the controls and me paying attention to the plot and telling him where to go next. He is horribly dyslexic but has great coordination, whereas I am an excellent reader but lack the dexterity to play many kind of games. This usually works out well, but, being siblings, we would end up bickering sometimes.

At the time of this story, I am seven and my brother is eleven. We’re playing the latest game in a popular green-clad-hero series and have just gotten an add-on for the system that lets us discover hidden areas by vibrating, or maybe rumbling, the controller. Since we’re not doing anything plot-related at the moment, my brother has decided my directions are more annoying than helpful — fair — and tells me to stop talking. So, I do.

Then, he falls into a hidden hole he just found, into a dark room with a gaunt figure crouched in the fetal position in the middle. Ominous ambient sounds play. My immediate thought is, “That’s a zombie.” I say nothing.

My brother approaches the creature fearlessly. “It’s going to eat his brains,” I think, keeping quiet.

He gets within arms reach of the monster and it shrieks, locking his character in place. We both jump and he starts frantically mashing buttons as the totally-a-zombie climbs on him and quickly drains away his life. Game over. I start laughing.

Brother: “What’s so funny?! Did you know that would happen?!”

Me: “It was obviously a zombie!”

Brother: “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Me: “You told me to shut up!”

He didn’t like that answer and chased me out of his room… for just a bit… until he got stuck on the next quest and had to ask me where to go.

My sister is an English major in her junior year in college, while I am in grad school for engineering. I am ranting about the annoyingly exacting specifications for writing a graduate thesis.

Me: “They want everything in this one particular reference style, which is, of course, different from what the rest of the world uses.”

Sister: “That sounds annoying.”

Me: “And they nitpick the headings and all that, as well. I mean, does ‘anal retentive’ have a hyphen?”

My sister pauses to think about this for a long time.

Sister: “Arrgh! Don’t do that! Now I have to look up ‘anal retentive’!”

Me: “Sorry, didn’t mean to break the English major!”

My brother and I have a very good joking relationship where we make fun of each other in both English and occasionally our second language, Russian.

This occurs when I call him to ask him for some help with my garden.

Me: “Hey, Baranovich—” *Affectionate name for a sheep* “—I sent you a photo of my lemon tree looking a bit s***. Can you help?”

Brother: “Yeah, hang on.” *Looks at the photo* “Look, Durak—” *Idiot* “—go to [Store] and get the white oil with chili and lemon.”

Me: “Okay, so I just spray that on?”

Brother: “So, first you sacrifice a duck, then face west, hold it up, and yell, ‘Ayayayaya!’, and then throw it at your neighbour, and the oil will work.”

Me: “So, do I wear the bucket on my left foot or my right foot?”

Brother: “Nah, on your head.”

Me: “Okay, thanks, little bro. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

We’re both in our thirties and I don’t think we’ll ever change.

My sister is pregnant with her first child and the subject of names comes up. I’m using fake names, but the real ones are similarly bad together.

Sister: “We were thinking we’d name him after his grandfathers, Leonardo and Harold, so Leonaharold.”

Me: “Not Leonardo Harold?”

Sister: “No, one word — Leonaharold. “

Me: *Faking excitement* “Oh! Just like Renesmee! From the Twilight books!”

Sister: “What?”

Me: “Yeah, that’s exactly how they named Renesmee! You’re going to have a little Twilight baby!”

Sister: “That’s not why I’m naming him that!”

The next couple of times I talked with her, I asked how my little “Twilight” nephew or my little Renesmee nephew was doing. By the time he was born, she had decided that maybe Leonardo Harold was a better choice after all. Your aunt’s looking out for you, kid.

This story is part of the Struggles With Names roundup!

Read the next roundup story!

Read the roundup!

This story is part of our July 2020 Roundup – the best stories of the month!

Read the next July 2020 Roundup story!

Read the July 2020 Roundup!