I miss your drunken antics. I know that's kind of creepy to say to someone you know primarily through the internet, but I had to get that off my chest.
I read over these things too fast sometimes. At first what I got was: "drunken antics and get off on my chest" Oh well.
It's nice outside, and my kid is in Lucifer Pout Mode. Awesome. This is the point where there is no pleasing whatsoever. Time for three-year-old psychology. Maybe I'll tell her that if she doesn't listen to me, I'll kill Santa Claus. I'm already lying to her by telling her that he exists, why not use him as leverage?
Is it bad that for a split second I was bummed I'm going to a bar because I want to see if Bewildered passes out again or tells us about her Olive Garden experiences? It might be, but I don't care.
I mean, she just got three stitches in her head a few nights ago and she headbutts the wall in a blind fury because I simply helped her open a door when she was feeling independent. "Bra-VO." I say. "You need more pain like you need a hole in the head."
Dude, you are raising the next Gina Carano. Embrace it. "Mr. Royal, we are calling because your daughter took the teacher's directive of nap time to mean put a sleeper hold on her neighbor."
I have some pasta and wine, and officially engaging in no more social justicey arguments tonight. Also, I might be going to a seedy gay bar later, so yes, my night will start AND end with cream sauce.