The husband comes to me with a sliver in his foot. I nearly have it with the crappy tweezers. I tell him to bring the REAL tweezers. He insists on giving it a go himself with the dull bastards first. Then brings me the other ones. He mangled the wound and buried the sliver. I tell him I’ll need a needle at this point if he still wants help, but that he’ll have to promise he’ll put the damned needle back before I’ll tell him where its at because he hasn’t returned it to its home the last several times he used it, and I have been lucky enough to SEE it before stepping/sitting on it EACH time.
He rolled his eyes and stormed off saying he’ll survive the fucking splinter before he deals with my games.
Okay.
I’m such a wiley woman. Me in all my glorious headfucking splendor. Be afraid, be very afraid…
Really?
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