i hate it when that happens
Seems like I have to do all of the work around here.
(This, of course, entitles me to gratuitous linkage to my own blog.)
So I'm at work today when I receive an email from Herself saying, basically "Scratch my itch, bitch." I of course politely asked what the fuck she was talking about as, although it does happen to be my week for girls, she's just a little far away for this to have any sort of happy ending.
Seems she's already fucked and didn't need me to perform that little task at all. Fucked as fucked can be. Broken arm (due to some sort of unspeakable bacchanalia occurring at Trixie's good-bye party (she alleges she was not yet drunk enough to have hurt herself this badly.) I have no idea how she moved house with a broken arm, no car, and temporary custody of a whining dog and cat longing for their people.
She provided, of course, no evidence of this injury. I, however, have ample proof of my injury, garnered some time around 1am this morning, while running down the hallway of my house screaming "go to bed, go to bed, go to bed RIGHT THIS INSTANT" at my daughter and then smashing my foot at full speed into the large oak-bordered mirror that is leaning against my wall.
I'm not sure if this will affect my ability to produce dishcloths however I'm pretty sure it was right uppity of Rebecca to call upon me to fill in for her while in this condition.
Just because she has a broken arm. Oh yes, and a broken computer.
I think we all know exactly who the selfish bitch is around here, don't we?