So, for this scenario, let me offer up the following character roles.
The old man that's asking if it's my letter to the looney bin has totally got to be my husband. Not because the guy's being mean and obnoxious, but because my husband knows that I kind of want to go to the looney bin for Christmas next year. It'll be like a retreat.
Cousin Eddie might as well be my fucking cats.
Helen? The wife? The one that's being nice to Griswald/Me? My imaginary friend.
And the mailman is really my actual mailman. Lik, in real life, he comes and brings my mail daily so I don't have to walk to the mailbox. But he breaks my door each time. (Ok, whatever. He's not really, but screw him because if he were, it'd make this post a whole lot funnier. D-bag.)
And I guess everyone else are/is/(what?) just the people I pay to hang out with me. And who knows who the kids are. Or even WHERE.
But yeah, I feel like cursing like that every day, and no, I am not even kidding. I'll give you a rundown of this morning, for example. It's a chain of events that will probably get googled and praised for it's comedic masterpieceishness, but then I'll have to fess up and be all like, "no, it's nonfiction." But they'll love me anyway because I remind them of superwoman and they'll take me out to dinner after having located a babysitter for me all by themselves.
So T9 was all "talking" at me a whole lot this morning, making the cats spazz out and Plus One draw signs for help and tape them on the front window for any possible passerbys. And then I felt bad so I let Plus One watch his favorite movie, The Incredibles. The one where they say "shut up" more than any other kids movie ever, probably. Then it was lunch time, so I started cooking some grilled cheese because it's really healthy. So my husband comes in to the living room and we start
At least summer is coming, which means my mustache hairs will be blonde instead of brown and I won't have to trim them for a while.