Something has been brewing for a long time now. I’ve tried to pretend that it doesn’t get to me. I’ve tried to act all grown-up about it, but the more I think about it, the more my eyes bulge out of my head.

Let’s say that I have a cousin named Carl. We’re both 13. We go to the same school, sit on the same bus, eat the same lunch, and take the same history class in 8th grade.

Carl and I are very competitive. Every time I raise my hand and give an answer in class Carl feels obliged to add his two cents.

For example, the teacher asks the class who the first President of the United States was. I raise my hand and say, “George Washington.” Simple. Straight forward. To the point.

The teacher says, “Correct.”

But then, Carl raises his hand and expounds on the answer I just gave. “George Washington,” he says, “was also the General who led the American Revolution, survived a historic harsh winter at Valley Forge, and won our freedom against British rule.”

Blah, blah, blah! Who cares?

The teacher says, “VERY good Carl. That’s an excellent review within the historical context of the time.”

Gag me!

You see what I mean? You work hard. You study your lessons. You know the answer. But then Carl comes along and grabs all the attention. He steals your spotlight.

I’ll probably be ashamed of myself for making this public. But I’ve decided it’s time to speak up and be heard. “Carl” is going down.

As you know, I work hard at writing these columns of mine. I mean, I put a lot of sweat into each story. I dig deep and do my best to give you something worth reading. I know some of it is dribble. Okay, maybe most of it. But once in a while I come up with something that speaks to the soul of humanity.

My biggest outlet for these columns is an unnamed social media site. I would name it, but I would be scrutinized by the keepers of appropriate content who keep safe the millions of vulnerable and sensitive adults who scroll its pages. I would probably be thrown under the digital jailhouse. My column banned; I would disappear into virtual oblivion.

Anyways. I write. I post. I wait to see what kind of response I get. That’s how it works.

Typically, more often than not, the response I get is rather tepid. It’s like the teacher saying, “Correct.” Nothing too expressive. Adequate but not over-the-top.

But then, “Carl” (AKA Marion) comes along and makes her post to supplement my post.

It’s not like my column needs supplementing. I hope you can see that. I gave the answer the teacher was asking for.

But that’s apparently not enough for Carl.

She’ll take a picture of some goofy looking guy, let’s say, in an armadillo T-shirt, write a few lines, and make her post. She says that she’s just adding a few extra details to my story. She says that she’s just complimenting my work.

First of all, I’m the writer here. I labor over every word. A lot of careful creative energy goes into each line to make sure each paragraph draws the reader into the descriptive experience.

Then Carl pops around the corner, phone-camera in hand. She takes a picture, and the next thing you know, there’s some vagrant-looking guy with his hand over his face, his mug posted all over social media.

Carl doesn’t invest any sweat equity in what she does. There’s little, if any, artistic effort. Just a click and a smirk as she sits down to peck away at her keypad.

But you know what kicks me in the gut most of all?

I can handle all the so-called attempts at adding to my stories. I can live with all the pictures that make me look like some deranged patient from the mental ward. Heck, I pose for most of them which means that I’m at fault as much as she is.

What gets me is the number of reactions and comments that come in response to each post. All those little emojis. The likes, laughs, hearts, and the hugs. These reactions are the measuring stick of how tall you stand; how much your friends celebrate with you.

The trouble is, . . . Carl is beating the pants off of me in this category. Not that either one of us is keeping score or anything like that.

I write a heartfelt story that bears my soul to the world, and I get a dozen reactions and eight comments. She posts a video of some old white-headed guy breaking his neck in the pool, and she gets 97 reactions and 32 comments.

I’m telling you; life is not fair.

“Think of all the laughter you’re bringing into some people’s lives,” she says.

I’m thinking that I’m gonna take that dang camera away from Carl.

I asked her the other day about the armadillo T-shirt.

“You saw that on Amazon, didn’t’ you?”

“I did.”

“You knew, even before that shirt dropped into your shopping cart, that you were gonna get a pic of me in it, and post it for the world to see. You saw this coming, didn’t you?”

“Me?” Carl is playing innocent.

“Yes, you! It was premeditated, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” she admitted.

Her grin reminded me of that last armadillo I saw while looking down the barrel of my 12GA.

I know I shouldn’t care about who is getting more reactions. It’s a juvenile and shameless waste of time. I’m trying to be the adult here, but Carl . . . Carl won’t let it go.

“How many reactions you got?” she asks. And when she asks that question, I can tell that she already knows the answer. Her inquiry is more like an in-your-face-I-got-you gesture.

“I’ve got 9 reactions and 2 comments on my story.” I’m waiting on Carl to drop the hammer.

“Hah! That’s nothing. I’ve got 67 reactions and 24 comments.”

I hate to admit it, but getting beat by an amateur is painful.

Carl says that we make a good team. She thinks that her stories go hand in hand with my stories.

I’m thinking that Carl is just riding on my coat tails. I mean, I am the almost famous author.

So, Carl says to me the other day, “I don’t mean to dig at you. I can stop taking pictures if it bothers you.”

This is a tactical move. It looks like compassion, but it’s a ruse in disguise. If I play into this, I come off looking like some pathetic sick-o who’s starving for attention.

“No,” I say. “I enjoy looking like a buffoon. It fits me.”

“Okay, thanks,” she says.

There are some things in life a man must accept. Things that are just part of the everyday reality in this world. Like death and taxes . . . and the fact that Carl is going to beat the pants off of me every stinking time we compare notes and count up the score.

😊 This one’s for you, Carl.