Part of it is scratches from Miss Margot (he’s threatening to post pictures). The other part is the horrific amount of heaving and tugging he’s had to do to help me get my head out of my ass.
No, he’s not moving out, or at least not until the next time I start rolling steel balls around in my hands again, quoting the Unabomber and twitching uncontrollably. I’m not moving out either. Besides, it’s NCIS night tonight, and we’re having barbecue with Keith, and I’m making cinnamon buns. Blame in on menopause, blame it on the fact that every tree in Vancouver is having sex – and I’m not, sorry to point that out – or mebbe blame it on work. Heavy sigh.
