The Chicken Flew the Coop
I flipped out once I heard that there was going to be another late late night. The first hour of lateness, I didn't even get a call - or - I did, but it went straight into voice mail. So by the second hour of lateness, she received a text that said, "Where the bleep are you?" The chicken was resting in the refrigerator all snug and ready to be roasted for tomorrow's big dinner. So when she came walking in, we fought the same fight we've been fighting over for the last 18 years. It gets exhausting because I already know my lines and so does she. It's like, "SHOWTIME" and basically, a really horrible rendition of every other fight we've ever had in the past.
Long spat short:
"I don't work because I like it!"
"I don't cook breakfast, lunch & dinner for you 'cause I like it!" (Well, I kinda do.)
Now entering the creepy third person narrative phase.
The chef quits.
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