On Saturday night, Adam went out for some light drinking and conversation with his dudebros, but when he came home at 2:30, he wasn't the same man that had left those few hours earlier. He walked slowly, moved about the apartment like a robot on a mission (aren't they all?), with his eyes wide and unblinking. When he finally spoke, he was impassioned, but made absolutely no sense. I asked him what's wrong.
"The reality of it is...you know...and the uh, and it doesn't, you know... you know?
"What?" I laughed, slightly unnerved, but mostly just making fun of him.
"You know, it is uh...and sometimes...or even...you know?" He inquired, "You know?"
"You aren't using nouns," I told him. To which, my sweet husband nodded.
What followed: He threatened to throw up in the bed. I told him he better not. When he frequently got up to pee, he first woke me up to formally excuse himself. "I am going to go to the bathroom now." He tossed so much that finally, after 2 hours of it, I took my pillow, our blanket that he no longer deserved, and headed to the couch in a huff. I was tired, but I am pretty sure I muttered, "I hate you" as I closed the bedroom door behind me.
At around 6am, I tried to go back to bed, only to find my husband sleeping on his stomach horizontally across the mattress, his legs shooting off the edge, straight at the knee baring me. I turned right back around and accepted my sleepless fate.
The next day he was sick as a dog, but promised he in no way drank enough for this to be happening. "A couple beers maybe." Whether or not that's true, I have to say that he owes me. I reserve my right to one day soon get drunk, so drunk that I pee myself, and he has to stand by me, as I have him.
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