“My boyfriend…blah blah blah…”
“Saturday night, I drank until I was blue in the face. Then I crashed. I don’t remember crashing, but I did. I woke up at about noon and didn’t even have a hangover…..,” the conversation floats off down the massive atrium space walkways as she rattles her high heels on the tiles, her companion, giggling at all the normal laugh lines of the party prone.
This is the talk at work. Maybe I’m getting old. I can’t handle this kind of talk anymore. I need meat and potatoes. Hell, even a vegan steak will do.
Wait…shit. Dammit. My oldest is nearly 14. God help me, which I know he won’t, being he can’t, but….damn. I hope she keeps her head in her books and continues to talk to me about cats, horses, dogs, and her hatred of spiders. Normally, my Renaya can’t get a word out of her mouth without singing it. That should scare potential suitors away. And it’s hard to drink when you’re trying to sing.