Sunday Night. Midnight.
Me: Henry, can you get out of bed and set the house alarm?
Him: You were the last one in bed, you set the house alarm. I’m too exhausted.
Me: You’re too exhausted from napping all day?
Him: I was only napping all day because I was on duty all week while you were on deadline and our children sucked the blood from my veins. I barely have any platelets left and without them I’ll die and then who will clean the kitty litter box?
Me: Those furry f$#king prima donnas will learn to poop outside.
Him: Speaking of which I’m exhausted from the dream I had last night where there was a toilet filled to the rim with poop and I had to clean it and it wasn’t even my poop because of the cats, your irritable bowel …
Me: Why do my bowels always have to take the fall?
Him: … and our daughters both being in diapers.
Me: Our daughters haven’t both worn diapers for seven years!
Him: I’m suffering Post Traumatic Shit Disorder. Which is exhausting.
Me: I’m exhausted just hearing how exhausted you are. And quit trying to disorient me by shining the reading lamp on your bald spot.
Him: That’s right! I’m going bald, which is also exhausting.
Me: I’m exhausted from growing my hair to make into a toupee for you!
A very long silence.
Me: This silence is exhausting.
Me: I’ll give you sex if you get up and set the house alarm.
Him: Will you stay awake throughout?
Me: I can’t promise throughout, but definitely in the beginning.
Automated Voice: Armed to Night!
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