I Didn’t Poison Her On Purpose
Yesterday was Sunday. Usually my day off, although I haven’t seen one in over two weeks. And you know what, Bitches?
So, after a successful concert where, I, Queen of the Performance Anxiety managed to get through all the things without any major blunders or catastrophes, decided it was time to eat of the beef and drink of the wine.
And by wine, I meant a pitcher of Sangria using a bottle of wine that tastes like candy and a shit ton of watermelon. Because no matter how fucking cold it is outside still, I demand spring. In fact, I demand summer. Because it’s almost time.
So Bestie came over and we made the Sangria. And we drank it. All. And I cooked a prime rib because it was Sunday, and I needed to see some meat bleed on my plate before sinking my teeth into it’s deliciousness. We ate the beef and some pasta and bathed the children, and then put said children to bed without incident.
It was looking good, Bitches. It was looking like a Game of Thrones viewing without interruption and several more glasses of wine on the way.
Bestie got a tummy ache. In fact, she ended up going home early, without watching Tyrion or the Hound or any of the snarky delight that rounds out our Sunday evenings.
I’m pretty sure I didn’t poison her. The rest of us are fine. And if I did, it was purely by accident.
Because Sunday without Bestie just isn’t the same.
And then there was this: ” he’s greasier than Joffrey’s cunt” said by the Hound. Which now takes over for my new favourite moment in television ever. It almost made up for my accidental poisoning of Bestie.
Anyway. Sorry about your tummy, Friend.