Sarah, I’ll pay the bill this time.
No really Sarah, it’s fine. Didn’t you pay for our meal last week?
Sarah, you’re one of my closest friends. Please let me take this one. For old time’s sake.
Honestly Sarah, shut the fuck up. I’m paying for this luncheon and there’s nothing you can do about it.
No Sarah, we aren’t splitting this thing down the middle. You ordered a side caesar. I ordered an entire roast suckling pig plus all of the garnishes plus a warm apple crisp plus four bottles of Grey Goose. How would that be fair? (more…)
In the distance I spy a group of four girls: each with a phone in their hands, each on an unmistakable quest to snap that perfect picture. The one that has to be taken at least eleven times because Claire thinks she looks radiant in one, but Molly has “literally never looked worse.” Or, Kate might love the shininess of her hair but Tara thinks her earlobes look weird. It’s like tapas: no one’s going to love everything.
They begin delegating positions: Claire will hold the camera because her arm is the longest, which is part insult part compliment.
Claire snaps a few shots to the best of her long armed ability, and the four girls huddle around the results with a seriousness akin to our Founding Fathers, pouring over the Declaration of Independence. (more…)
Therapist: So, here we are again, on your dad.
Whopper, Jr.: Yeah, Mr. Bigshot. Mr. Kingshit. Pun intended. THE Whopper. For God’s sake, who puts a “the” in front of his name?
Therapist: Well, The Big Mac, The Quarter Pounder —
Whopper, Jr.: Yeah, yeah, I get it.
Therapist: I know it’s tough competing with him, but you’re the one who went into the hamburger business.
Whopper, Jr.: Like I had a choice…he’s pushed it on me from day one.
Therapist: Well, what did you want to do? (more…)