I rarely win
So, The Monkey showed up at my house last night at 8:30. In her jammies.
I was in my room watching Canadian Idol. (Beatles night and all 5 dudes were very good — even my cousin Mitch.)
She marched into my room, eating a cookies and cream chocolate bar, said, “Hey, dude” and hopped on the foot of my bed.
She wanted to watch the season finale of The Mole that I had recorded. We had watched every episode this season together. I told her that I wanted to watch Canadian Idol, but she could watch The Mole in the living room.
She made sadface.
She said, “No. I am going to go home then.”
I said, “You don’t need me.”
“No.” Another sad face.
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s no fun without you, Peter.”
I said, “Fiiiiine.” And got off of my bed.
She started walking out of the room in front of me and mumbled, “I triiicked you.”
Edit to add AGAIN: I am still protesting a little over the painful ouster of my man Oliver Pigott.