Oh dear. I went out for drinks last evening after a long, semi soul-crushing day at work, and one beer turned into two margaritas, and…cut to me, wide awake at 3am, lying in a sad ball on the couch, watching televised commercials about insomnia. Since I turned old, I keep relearning how drink is now the devilment of my sleeping time, ugh!
At about 4am I decided some saltines and fluids might be in order, and yay we had a half-full liter of rootbeer in the refrigerator! But boo, Marco and his gigantic man arms had screwed the top on so tightly, my dinosaur arms weren’t strong enough to access the sweet fizzing sips inside which I so desperately needed!
I’m not sure why but Marco seemed somewhat befuddled when I woke him out of a deep, zombie sleep and handed him a giant bottle to open, open, open?