One side of brain: “No, we’re trying not to eat our feelings, remember? We’re trying to eat better and practice healthier coping mechanisms. We are stronger than food.”
Other side of brain: “Fuck you, we’re REALLY not. I demand six Egg McMuffins and a few shots of whatever will sedate me. Literally, whatEVER: Wine? Prozac? Cough syrup? Horse tranqs? BRING IT.”
Buffalo mozzarella sticks, guys. Do you know what that is? It’s mozzarella sticks, doused in buffalo sauce, AND THEN YOU DIP THEM IN BLUE CHEESE. It is sexy, cheese-on-cheese action. It is fucking vile…and also quite possibly the best thing in the world. A nice man would deliver it to my door — along with a pizza — for a nominal fee, because America is AMAZING.
P.S. I will obviously also need a cake, because “It says right here, it is a dessert wine.”
I think I did a thing.
I think it was a healthy thing.
I think I may vomit.
It’s probably a good, healthy step this long after a breakup to not wish each other Merry Christmas, not out of anger or spite, but because you’re busy living your lives.
I mean, unless you’re me, and will sit here stewing about it at the end of the day but not saying it first because you sent the last text yesterday, and you have too much pride to say it first because remember you said “Happy Thanksgiving” first?
Ahem. Not that that’s happening… Because that would be lunacy.
My wine and I are going to bed.