John tells me yesterday afternoon that the shooting schedule has been changed and I won't be needed again until next week. The Sox were playing the Angels this weekend. Coincidence? I think not. We made up for yesterday's loss and I got to watch it live and in person. I like to think that my being at the game had something to do with that. Well,
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I think I'm just picking on you because you're there. I haven't seen you or your chin in a while, that's sad.
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I think changing the sheets will suffice for tonight because I'm just too tired to put forth more effort than that. Though, tomorrow, a good deep cleaning might be in order. That shit sinks in, you know.
I won't object. Where are you?
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Eww girly smell sinking into the padding and coils and springs of your mattress. I'll bet it's even in the curtains and I hope to god you don't have carpet on the floor.
I'm in LA, at home.
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You're making me paranoid. Stop it!
Let's do something this week.
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Hahahah.
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::honeymoon::
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The second order of business is to take your wife out to dinner. Bring along that freeloading bitch too, because she's not answering the phone lately.
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By the way, I absolutely fucking hate your husband.
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No, you love me. You're just bitter that you can't sprawl out in the big bed anymore.
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Yeah, me too.
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