The Guy in the Boxers came home unexpectedly for lunch today and caught me smoking a cigarette in the backyard. Oy and argh.
"Butt, I only smoke half of one once a month or so..." I whined. He must have found my stash in the garage, a few pathetic fags in a ziploc baggie hidden behind the bag of charcoal and the foam pool noodles. He did not seem at all surprised. I am so lame.
He is a mental health professional, so he refrains fom the guilt infliction. But he looks at me sideways and sadly wags his head back and forth. What to do with the badly behaved girl?
The butt, butt, butt excuse is the same thing I tell my groin-a-chiatrist every year when I go in for my annual pelvic exam (such fun) and actually answer the questions on the questionaire honestly. To which she always replies: "Well, why bother? What's the point? Just stop it already."
I'm stressed, it helps me think. I know it's bad for me, so wrong and icky. That's me today. Wrong. And icky.
1 comment:
Butt now you have something to confess and confession is good for the soul.
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