Last week, if I wasn’t at an appointment, I was in bed a majority of the time. It’s not the worst place to hang – in fact, I love my little nest. It doesn’t mean I want to live there, though. I gotta do what I gotta do.
Manchild came home to find me snoozing at 5pm, and before he even greeted me, he asked if I want him to give our Weezer concert tickets away to someone who will be able to go. Hey dude, you said you’d give me a piggy back ride. What happened? Did my butt get too grandiose? My answer to his inquiry was ‘fuck off’.
I’ve been waiting for this for months. Something fun to look forward to. None of this matters if it turns out I can’t go, and then we’re out $60 that could’ve been spent on something else. Like his stupid toys.
After thinking about it, I told him to ask around at work to see if any of his underlings are interested. He said he doesn’t want to ask unless I’m ready to give them up. We can hang onto and see how I’m feeling on Friday. Keep the hope alive. Meh. It’s going to take a sizeable miracle to get from here to there in 6 days.
I want to go, and I also want to be cured, but I’ve got to be a little realistic. What are the chances?
The other part of me wants the money because dingbat went overboard with paintball and the bank account is hurting big time. We’re supposed to travel back to Ohio over the 4th of July weekend for a baptism, and that’s an expensive undertaking as well. I’d give up my tickets and any potential birthday shenanigans to make up for his spending indiscretions. How is this okay? Why do I feel it’s my duty to pay for his poor decisions?
If I sell my tickets, it will be so they don’t go to waste. When my birthday rolls through, I’m going to treat myself, because I deserve it. He can handle behaving himself for a couple of weeks, and if not, that’s his problem when he doesn’t have enough money to buy lunch. He can come home for lunch and make something. Manchild.