“I’m sorry about last night.”
It’s Saturday morning, and a groggy Hubbs blinks back at me from across the table. “Me too. What was with you anyway? I was just joking with you like normal and you went all … crazy.”
(“Crazy” meaning I glared at him,
told him to take a flying leap hissed at him, stomped off, and avoided him for the rest of the night.)
“I know. I was trying to figure out why I was so pissed off at you. Then I went to take my medicine before I went to bed and realized what it was.”
“I’m getting a monster visit from Aunt Flo. I’m seriously ragey, just to warn you. Haven’t seen her in four months.”
A knowing look dawned on his face. “I hate her.”
And why haven’t I seen her in four months you ask? Because my doctor told me to double — actually, quadruple up on my birth control pills. Remember that whole anemia thing after the IUD disaster? Well, this was to help get my iron levels back to normal.
It also means that I’ve got four months worth of … stuff … going on. Ragey, hormone-laden, acne-producing STUFF.
And despite — or because of — my warning, Hubbs felt it was necessary to push my buttons.
All freaking day.
Finally, I snapped: “What the hell, man? I told you I was ragey and pissy. WHY do you insist on pushing my buttons?!”
He smirked — he’s a first-class smirker — “It adds an element of danger and excitement to our boring errands. Its like poking a sleeping bear or playing with fire. I just can’t stop!”
And then my head imploded.
Internet? This is why movies like “Jackass” exist.