Sometimes I know a fight is going to happen, like I can see it coming from miles away. It’s as obvious as the ice cream truck. And I know what I have to do in order to stop it.
But I don’t.
I just stand there, cash in hand and wait for it to get closer, the fight melody getting louder.
Then I flag it down and buy some sour-sickles, pout-bars, silent treatment sundaes and teary-treats.
Why?
I don’t know why. But hey, I told you this b-day business could be ugly.
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