It's 1 am and stomach bug number 3 (in just 6 weeks) has thankfully slowed down from making me run for number 2 once every 4 minutes to just twice every hour. So I can't sleep really, but I can stop camping out in the bathroom.
As if Krusty needed another reason not to come home from the office, I have gone from model housewife with dinner on table and ironed shirts in cupboard, to stressed out editor with moany stories and an eating disorder, and now sick vegetable with greasy hair and conversations ending in 'I must leave you there' every four minutes. Or twice an hour.
But no, being the model Krusty he is, he has proven once again that he is the perfect bf. He even came home from work yesterday to spend his lunch break stroking my feverish forehead while he read me a story from his new favourite 'Hedge Hogging' book about hedge funds (I kind of wish he'd stroked in silence, but hey, at least it put my mind off vomiting). And then he ran down to the shop to buy me the toast I so craved, only to watch me nibble the corner of it, shake my head and, with lower lip appropriately pushed out, moan 'no' like an ungrateful child.
Of course, this means only one thing: I think Krusty is ready to have children! Or is that just the fever making me read subtext into normal situations again?
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About us
- The rat and the monkey
- I, La Gitane, am a monkey. A metal monkey, to be precise. And Krusty, well, he is a rat. No, not the evil type of rat with red eyes and bushy, diseased fur. Nor is he the type of rat that has several monkeys at once. At least I hope he isn't. No, he is a water rat. And together, we plan to take over Hong Kong, one delicious roast goose at a time...
Oh, and by the way, obviously, the copyright to all of the content on this website belongs to its creator and if you should want to reproduce any part of it, you should ask for her permission first if you don't want to be taken to court. So there.
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