Hey, I'm on my way home. What are you doing?The whole way home I'm thinking that I'll be able to spin whatever Sweety has done to himself into a nice, fat blog post. He must have been doing something that he shouldn't have been to hurt himself and that's why he didn't want to tell me over the phone.
Can't talk right now. I'm suffering.
Um, okay. Will you be alright?
Yes. Gotta go. Bye.
I go into the living room and he's all laid back on the couch. I'm looking for a bandage or ice pack or something but all I see is a wine cooler (yeah, that's how we roll) in his hand.
So what happened?! (in my mind I've already decided that I'll type up the whole story, highlighting Sweety's anguish, while he's in the shower so he won't know that I'm talking about him)Son of a bitch. I don't have anything interesting to tell you except that my socks don't stick to the floor anymore.
What happened to you today? Do you need to go to the doctor?
What the hell are you talking about?
On the way home, you said you couldn't talk to me because you were suffering. I figure you must have really been hurting and needed to get off the phone to patch yourself up.
No, you dumbass. I said I was swiffering. I was mopping where your filthy dogs live.