Thursday, May 15, 2008

Murder Most Foul

I wake up a little when Trev walks past the bed. In the dark, it seems to me he is carrying something long, silver, and shiny. I struggle to focus and realize, with relief, that it’s just the reflection of streetlight off of the portable phone.

Working: Oh my goodness.
Trev: What?
Working: I thought you were carrying a knife.
Trev: A knife?
Working: It’s cuz of that book I was reading before I fell asleep. The murder one.
Trev: Oh Love, I would never come at you with a knife.
Working: I know.
Trev: I would come at you with a baseball bat.

(NOTE: It occurs to me that you might not know that this is how we joke around. This stuff makes us laugh. Please don’t call the cops.)

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Blogger Sleeves ~ 9:47 AM

C and I often joke around in a similar way-- jokingly yelling at one another about absurd things. More than once I have noticed that the windows were open or that the neighbours were outside while we were doing this. The cops have yet to be called, but no one has come by to borrow a cup of sugar, either. It's funny to me that our making fun of dysfunction is probably being interpreted as actual dysfunction. Perhaps I should put signs in all our windows that say: We heart irony.  

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