I am a terrible girlfriend.

I don’t know whether Grant’s is the cutest butt in Guadalupe County, but it’s definitely a strong contender for whiniest: “Sierra, can you bring me another beer? I can’t walk on this ankle.” (This while I was regluing his chairs in the middle of my lobby.) “I was going to take Harvey out, but my ankle is just so sore, I can’t do it.” “Does this ankle look swollen to you?” “I might be able to help you with the dishes later, but I’ll need to keep my ankle elevated. Maybe you could set up a couple of chairs for me so I can help you dry. What do you mean, it’s faster if you just do it yourself? Don’t get snippy about it. It’s not like I fell off the roof on purpose. I’m just trying to help, even if I am in pain.” [Winces dramatically in obvious ploy for sympathy.]

I finally got sick of waiting on him hand and foot and told him to suck it up, quit being such a baby (not my exact choice of words, but close enough), and get his own damn beer.

He did not appreciate that very much, but his condition appears to have improved dramatically in the past four hours or so. Go figure….

— Sierra


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