One time in the apartment I sliced open my baby toe on the old, rusty floorboard heaters. It started bleeding profusely, so I hobbled over to my chair and called out for BAB. But she never came. As I was supergluing my toe back together, she strolled in and said, "What happened?!" I, with my bloody stump of a toe, recounted the events to her. "Why didn't you call me to come help you?" she asked.
"I did. Four times."
Sometimes I catch BAB looking at my baby toe and I find extreme comfort in the belief that she's wallowing in anguished regret for having let me quietly bleed to death.
"I did. Four times."
Sometimes I catch BAB looking at my baby toe and I find extreme comfort in the belief that she's wallowing in anguished regret for having let me quietly bleed to death.
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