Maybe some people are enriched by having siblings. Maybe they share experiences, form bonds, and enjoy each others' company, their affection growing deeper over time. My two sisters just taught me world-class selfishness.

I tried to hold onto a bare-bones civility, but it didn't stand a chance. If I caved in to a request for a sip of my soda, I'd get back an empty can. By the time the mashed potatoes got around to me, the bowl would be licked clean. I needed to do something desperate if I wanted to stave off scurvy, so slowly but surely I came up with the Three Commandments of Selfishness.

1) Eat when you don't feel like it or you probably won't eat at all. Don't feel like hot chocolate on a sunny summer day? Tough. It's now or never, bucko, so man up and suck those mini-marshmallows down.

2) Hide food the second you get home from the supermarket. Nobody can eat what they can't find. Plus, even if they eventually discover those Ding Dongs squirreled away in your underwear drawer, you're probably still home free.

3) Add something disgusting to everything you cook. Driven by desperation, I learned how to turn inedible crap like potatoes, melba toast and lentils into palatable foods. Rather than developing similar skills, though, my sisters just circled the kitchen while I cooked, waiting for me to turn my back. Just needs a little salt, I'd think, and when I'd return to the pot a second later it'd look like locusts had attacked.

My sister Jazz unwittingly gave me the solution. "This is disgusting," she announced as she spat out a bite of my enchiladas. "What is this horrible green stuff?"

At first I couldn't believe she'd criticized my cooking, but then it hit me. That's the key! I realized. Cilantro! I'll use that peppy green herb like Superman's foes use kryptonite. From that day on it turned up in everything I cooked, from soup to chocolate mousse.

I finally moved out when I turned sixteen. They hadn't broken my spirit, though I could slide through wrought iron fences without turning sideways. Though my selfishness was no longer needed it held on fast, morphing from a survival strategy to an anchor that weighed me down. It seemed like every guy I dated was raised by loving parents in a warm and caring home. They shared, shared, and shared some more. Everything they did was generous. Everything they had was up for grabs. "That's a gorgeous sweater," I told Ralph.

"Take it!" he said. "The blue looks amazing with your eyes."

My selfish brain, set in its ways since those formative years, strugged to process this new information. Generosity? Altruism? Attractive clothing being passed around for free? Holy Jesus, I thought -- what end times are these?

Ralph and I lasted three weeks. I loved my half of the relationship, but he wasn't totally happy with his. The final straw came when we went to a Starbucks that only had one apricot walnut muffin left and I was closer to the cash register than he.

After eight more nice, generous guys ran screaming from me, I decided I had to change, but I quickly discovered that I couldn't. I'd try to bring my boyfriend a sandwich but my body would literally shake its complaint. What the hell are you doing? it'd wonder. What about us? Sure, maybe we don't need that sandwich right away, but winter's coming, and it's going to be cold. Just shovel down half of it, dude, and I'll store it away for later.

I'd fight those little voices as best I could, but next thing I knew I'd be standing in front of my man holding a plate dusted with crumbs and a pickle.

Luckily the fates intervened when I met Raoul, because my selfishness didn't bother him. He didn't complain. In fact, he barely seemed to notice. I knew he was the one when I woke up next to him after our first night together. He had a whole huge spread of food covering the bed: pancakes, sausages, ham slices dotted with cloves and pineapple. Biscuits with gravy, croissants, muffins with cranberry butter.

This is what it's like to wake up in heaven, I thought. I couldn't believe my luck. I propped myself up with a pillow and surveyed the startling spread. "Is this breakfast?" I asked excitedly.

He shoved a forkful of French toast in his mouth, then glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. "You mean yours, or mine?"