no frickin’ clue how I got the damn salad dressing on my forehead.
Furthermore, I have no idea why the therapist didn’t tell me that shit was on my forehead. Maybe it was because I was a quivering mass of snivels and tears that day.
I’ll never know.
What’s worse is later on that night I went to McDonald’s with barbecue sauce on my cheek.
Yes. Barbecue. Sauce. On. My. Cheek.
Like, hey, this fat bitch is ordering five McDoubles, but I know she just ate an ass load rack of ribs.
But only because my husband told me there was nothing on my face.
I am so motherfucking cool.
Yes. I still say cool.
For the record, I did not eat an ass load of ribs. I ate three. Minus the one that was stuck on my cheek. And I only ate one motherfucking McDouble.