But I just went into my bathroom and noticed salad dressing. On my forehead.
Yes. Salad. Dressing. On. My. Forehead.
Which means that I spent an entire hour with my therapist. With. Salad. Dressing. On. My. Forehead.
As if she didn’t think I was screwed up enough.
I’m sure the salad dressing screamed nothing but Yeah, you thought she was crazy. But REALLY she is a total motherfucking nut job. Not just a little crazy like you thought before.
A totally INSANE, CRACKED, BATS IN THE BELFRY, LUNATIC, FUCKED UP WHACK-JOB WITH MORE THAN TWO BEERS SHORT OF HER GODDAMNED SIX PACK.
I mean, who walks around with RED salad dressing on their forehead. Without knowing it.
Now, where did I put the rest of that beer? And can someone find me a motherfucking washcloth?
Photo from Wish-bone.com