I got out of going to the gym for a significantly large amount of consecutive days. It was a lot of "hey Ben! Look at this!" Or "hey Ben! I made a gourmet dinner!" Or "Look at me dance with this cat! Let's watch Netflix!"
Now he's on to my little scam. So we are going to the god-awful gym tonight. No amount of my fine tuned distracting techniques will deter his stubborn buns from going and guilt tripping me along. The gym is a place where linguine-armed pizza-lovers like myself tend to steer clear of... but the Mister wants to go, so fine. Besides, I could use a 15 minute tanning session.
•••••••••••••••••••
Last night, we walked down the riverwalk to Bar Louie for dollar burgers. After we sat down, I noticed a chair facing a dark corner. I figured it was the naughty chair and proceeded to have a hearty, solo laugh at such an absurd thought while Ben, I assume, was looking up symptoms of lunacy on WedMD.
•••••••••••••••••••
When I woke up this morning (to the sound of ducks on the river!), I immediately thought "whaaat the hell was I dreaming." During this thinking dialogue with myself, Ben walked into the bedroom and told me about how he dreamt he was being chased by zombies. I had dreamt that a zombie was lumbering toward me before I got pissed and betch-slapped it.
The moral of that story is that we must have fallen asleep with the television on.
Or the flesh-eating undead are on their way. And that's disgusting.
••••••••••••••••••
xoxo, b
No comments:
Post a Comment