And I’m really tired, so please excuse my poor writing today. Don’t blame me, blame Southwest Airlines, which just wouldn’t be Southwest if they didn’t screw me over. I used to be a frequent Southwest flyer before the husband and I got married because we had a long distance relationship and they would, without fail, delay at least one leg of my journey. They gifted me with an hour and a half delay on my last frequent flyer trip (to retrieve the then fiancé). How thoughtful. I was hoping they’d gotten better at this whole delay business now that over a year has passed since I’ve been on one of their planes. I might as well have hoped for not-so-dear brother-in-law to come to his senses and see that his girlfriend is super psycho and super fugly. I wouldn’t have minded a delay on our trip there considering that our flight left at 6am, but of course that flight went off without a hitch (minus my limping pathetically through the airport and down the jetway). No, we were delayed coming back, when all I wanted to do was get home and sleep. We didn’t arrive until midnight and with all the driving and unpacking and catching up and all, didn’t get to bed until 2am. And now I can’t see straight. But I suppose it’s okay because all I have to do is make it through today. The major professor’s going to be out of town for the rest of the week, which means that his grad student is also going to mysteriously disappear for the rest of the week (shopping, anyone?).

The vacation was nice, but not really much of a vacation because of my sprained ankle. I think I was frustrated and grumpy at least 50% of the time, which just wasn’t fun. We just ate a lot and sat around a lot. At least most of the sitting around was done at the beach or else I would have been grumpy 99% of the time. And even though I said that I wasn’t going to blog while I was there, I did anyway because I just had to have a post for this week’s Grand Rounds. I don’t usually have a hard time writing posts, but my frustration with my ankle really messed with my concentration, causing me to take well over two hours to spit out my rather pathetic two-part post on Chinese distrust of Western medicine. The only thing that kept me from giving up as I sat there with no words in my head was that I could reward myself with yummy ramen (authentic Japanese ramen, not Cup O Noodle) complete with an equally tasty tea egg when I finished. So the instant I clicked the “send” button to submit my post to Grand Rounds, I jumped out of my chair (well, more like slowly raised myself out of the chair with my arms) and dragged the husband out of bed to take me to our yummy ramen spot. Even though I didn’t enjoy having to wait so long to eat, the decision to go eat pretty late (it was now 8pm) was a strategic one. You see, our destination was my husband’s previous area of residence, where all of his backstabbing sand people former friends still reside and I wanted to be sure that we wouldn’t run into them. I’d been lucky so far and the trip was almost over, but I still had to be sure, so I figured that we should go eat late since it was Sunday and people eat earlier on Sundays because they need to get some rest for the upcoming work week. I even scoped out the parking lot for their cars when we got there. And I thought we were safe as we were sitting outside of the restaurant waiting for a table to open up.

Until I saw some people exit and the unmistakable gait of the husband’s super psycho super manipulative super fugly ex-girlfriend (though I do have to say that not-so-dear brother-in-law’s super psycho super fugly girlfriend wins out in both of these departments) and her (poor) new victim (who happened to be my husband’s friend too—it’ll take too long to explain, so I’ll leave it at that). They didn’t see us though, which was good and I was beginning to think that I was mistaken since I was still seeing stars from all of that hard work writing those posts. But the ex’s new victim noticed us and turned around and started talking to us. I didn’t so much mind since I assumed they had finished eating and were leaving. Plus the ex had walked on ahead and was leaving the new victim to chat with us. But then she realized who we were and came back and gave the husband a huge-with-way-too-much-contact hug. And they weren’t done eating. It turns out that the entire group of backstabbing sand people former friends were still in the restaurant and they had just ordered. The ex and her new victim were merely running off to grab some boba to go with their meal. The inevitable “why don’t you join us?” ensued with the husband agreeing. So we ate with them. And despite my efforts to avoid ending up seated next to her, I failed. And then she gave the husband another huge-with-way-too-much-contact-if-this-goes-on-for-one-more-second-I’m-going-to- kick-your-fugly-ass hug before we left.

Ah, my luck. And why couldn’t the husband say no to them? What did I expect really? He never said no before. That’s why I had to move him far, far away from them. And no, I’m not overreacting. If you knew the half of the hell they all put me through because my existence led to their realization that they are sand people, you would understand. But that would take way too long to explain, so you’ll just have to trust me here that I’m the one who got super-Count-of-Monte-Cristo-worthy-revenge wronged here.

So, yeah, that wasn’t fun, but I guess the rest of the trip was simply because I was away from those pesky freeloading kids.

And rest in peace, poor seagull that got run over by our rental car because it didn’t fly away like we thought it would. It’s not my fault my husband thought you were playing chicken.

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