Love and the Cahalan Girls

I occasionally get accused of being mean to This Guy. I make fun of him too much, take too much joy in harassing him. I maintain that this is nothing new, and he knew what he was getting into. It's been half a decade; he must like it or we'd never have gotten this far. On top of that I am starting to think that it's a genetic compulsion.

Steaming Frank's pizza in my hands, I wander into the kitchen and a conversation. "What's your problem?" Mom asks Dad. "Did the fresh air make you stupid or something?"

A few hours later, Right of Center is complaining about her lack of success on the softball field. "I hate being bad at things." She grumps. "And I hate it when my stupid dumbass boyfriend is better than me."

Makes my autumnal chorus of "You're gonna lose to Naaaaaavy" seem positively heartwarming.