I’ve had one of those headaches lately that’s so painful it feels like Satan is throwing a Pampered Chef party in my brain and the only thing he is selling is a set of rusty knives. Since it’s a party – I’m assuming they are dancing, flailing them around, and getting a little stabby with each other while Hitler and Hussein invade each other’s territories in the bedroom. It is Hell, after all. As are those home-hosted parties that your friends guilt trip you into attending just to sell you crap you don’t really need. Man, I hate those. You have to go, though, or you’re not being supportive enough because this is the income they use to feed their children. You don’t want to be the reason little Betty Sue starves, do you? What about sweet young Gary? SO. MUCH. PRESSURE.
On the plus side, my migraine got me out of going to a SuperBowl party that I didn’t want to be at. The only problem was, was that the party was at my house. How awkward is it to go to a party when one of the hosts is hiding upstairs in a dark room crying as they eat buffalo wing dip with a spoon? Kudos to my husband who had to answer the endless flow of questions about my whereabouts all night. Poor guy.
How did you spend your SuperBowl evening? Are you pissed the Patriots won? Do you not give a crap either way? Did you watch the Puppy or Kitten Bowl instead? (I recorded it so I could watch it later!)
I love polls, so answer this random question! Remember, it’s anonymous – so you have to answer truthfully! No one will know.