I ate a regular (not snack-sized) bag of Baked Lays for lunch. And almost a whole pint of chocolate ice cream for dinner.
Maybe I’m just a chub, but it is possible that I am suffering from PMS.
And we all know what the green pills in the dialpac do to us. (Boys-- if you don’t know, you should.)
It’s Sunday. So I was sort of hoping Simon would call, you know, to help out with things in the green pill department. But when he pops up online, I know he’s not still in a plane and must be in New Jersey. I shouldn’t talk to him, because if he’d wanted to see me, he would have called.
But you never want to end up like Scarlett O’Hara. You know, you fall down the stairs and have a miscarriage (or whatever your particular situation happens to be), and you want to ask for Rhett. And Rhett’s outside, wanting to ask for you. But you’re both too stubborn to say anything. But if you’d just spoken up, you probably could have just kept living in your fancy house with the only person in the wide world who will ever really understand you and you’d never have to wear your curtains again.
I still wish I had a transcript of that phone conversation. All I can remember him saying is “I value our friendship. . . “, “It could be worse-- I could have knocked you up,” and “I need to take this call.”
At any rate, I think I think it might be time for a full-on offensive.