I left out a lot of the conversation, obviously. Connie straight up told us she'd given up on herself ever being happy. Literally.
"I've given up on ever being happy," Connie said. Then she laughed. It was forced, to put on a brave face, and it ended too quickly as she realized how many of us were watching her, shocked and saddened by her words. "I'll be fine," she said, taking a deep drink of her vodka and soda, "really." Then, to herself, softly, she repeated it: "I'll be fine."
She looked up suddenly, with a new light in her eyes. "Enough about my sad life of loneliness and despair. Who has kids? I love pictures of kids." And then, as we all took turns showing off our respective rug rats, Connie began to cry. It was the ugly sort of drunken cry more often associated with ruined prom dresses and bad college break-ups.
"This happens all the time," Connie said between sobs. "Don't worry." And then, again, "I'll be fine." Same tone, same inclination. Like she wished it would be true.
That's sort of how it went down.
This all really sounds like a romance/fan-fic novel.
We do happen to have a rule about pink flamingos in our yards. When I first moved here, people on our street would put one in someone's yard on Friday morning. It meant that whoever had it, had to host the weekly BBQ. It was a pretty cool tradition. It got ruined when people would get jealous of it being placed in someone else's yard. No one ever called the HOA about it, but it was always so cool to me.
It got ruined when people would get jealous of it being placed in someone else's yard.
Sounds like rich white people things to me. I would never get jealous of not having to host a BBQ
if i start doing a human tornado while holding two knives around someone and that someone happens to get slashed to death, was it intentional?
If I were to shoot a machine gun at an apple from a person's head, would it count as murder if I accidentally hit him?
Probably not a good idea right now. Turns out there's a glut of the stuff and they're probably going to have to throw away around a million pounds of it.
No kidding, my friend had a huge bag of "shitty" weed that he threw away because it was a bad batch from a start-up farm in Oregon.