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I’d gotten disappointingly good at concealing my true feelings from my own family.
Who the fuck needed sixteen goddamn bathrooms? What, did he wake up every morning and go, Hmm, what bathroom am I going to shit in this morning? Oh, I know, bathroom number nine. I haven’t been in there in a while.
He stared at me, mouth slightly agape in what I could only describe as befuddlement. “Oh. You’re like, insane insane.” “I prefer the term mentally spicy,”
“I wasn’t sleuthing. I was observing.” “You were stalking.” “God forbid a woman has a hobby.”
Customer service was not my forte, and whoever came up with the phrase, the customer is always right was a fucking bone head. Newsflash, the customer was not always right. In fact, they were rarely fucking right.
