If one is going to trash-talk they should do it right: standing in the street and resting on the trash can. Which is exactly what my neighbor and I did when I returned home from work.
“Your house was abnormally quiet this weekend,” she told me. I thought about this for a moment, because I couldn’t remember that being the case. “Well, I was babysitting one night.” Then I remembered I did have friends over for a wee bit, “My friends and I did shout out to you from the porch when you came home one evening.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot about that,” she told me. This is twice in one weekend that someone has forgotten about interaction with me and, to my surprise, admitted it to me.
Earlier, Dr. BJ told me he had a dream about me. “Did we have sex?” I asked. “I can’t remember.” “Well, if we had sex, maybe you blocked it out,” I advised him. “Oh, yes. If we had sex I would definitely block that out,” he replied. “Whatevs,” I said and thought to myself, “Please, I haven’t been on a kiddy ride since I was a kid.”
I continued my conversation with my neighbor, who went on to talk more trash on me, “You look whipped.” “Whipped?” I asked. “Yeah. Rough day?” she inquired. “Well, I did have to get up and go to work, so, yes,” I replied, then grabbed my rubbish bins and told her, “I must be on my way.” In my head, however, I was thinking, “I’m guessing she is the reason her dad left her mom.”