Two weeks ago, as I frantically threw clothes into my luggage, hoping that somewhere in the mess I had remembered to pack my glasses and toothbrush and enough underwear to get me through the break, I shook the Boy awake and asked him to do me a favor.
Or maybe ten favors.
Since I was bound to miss my flight if I didn't leave at that exact moment, I begged the Boy to clean out the fridge for me and take out the trash. Sleepily, he agreed, probably unaware of the nastiness and green-molded over rice that was waiting for him.
I came back to Chicago a couple of days ago, to find my bed made and my room sparkling clean. And there, on my bed, were all of my stuffed animals, waiting for me.
That boy sure knows how to throw a welcome home reception like nobody's business. Even if the only people present are me and twelve stuffed animals.*Say what you want about Creed, but in high school, this song was on everyone's playlist, and sure, maybe I sung along to all the soaring choruses and this might be one of those instances where I'm talking and revealing way too many embarrassing details about myself again so I should stop. But in defense of my musical preferences, they did win a Grammy for this song back then, so if I have bad taste, so do all the Grammy voters. Yet, I do find it extremely amusing that if you Google "worst band in the world," Google shows results for this very band. Poor Creed, but still, I laugh.
