God, I'm immature.

Last night, I went over to my friend Julie's house for dinner. She'd suggested this week would be good because her husband was out of town and she'd "love the company". And I'm an idiot because I actually bought that, despite the fact she has a three-year-old son. For future reference, if your husband's out of town, and you really just want me to help out with feeding, entertaining, bathtime, etc., just say so. I won't come of course, but at least it will be an honest request. (Why you'd want me to help out with your kid is beyond me anyway. You'd be better off trusting your child with Britney Spears.) All of this said, at least Julie was feeding me dinner, and I actually like her kid, Brendan.

Or I did until last night.

At the moment, I seem to be doing nothing but damage control in the boy department. In the past three months, I've had my heart broken, broke someone else's, then (in the latest episode of my sitcom-of-a-life) an ex moved into an apartment only eleven units away from mine. (Yes, I counted.) As it was with these other guys, things started out okay last night between Brendan and I. We were laughing, having a good time...he even asked me if I'd take a bath with him. (And given how long it's been since a guy asked me that, it broke my heart to tell him that unfortunately I'd "left my jammies at home.")

Then, after my refusal and very much par for the course, things took a turn for the worse. As he was headed for the bathtub he turned around and, pretending his wang was a gun, proceeded to "shoot" me with it, complete with POW!-like sound effects. As if that wasn't humiliating enough, while I was reading him a story after his bath, he released about 7 metric tons of hydrogen sulfide gas onto my lap. "Sorry," Julie apologized while laughing, "I gave him some prunes earlier." I was wearing designer jeans at the time, and while she was busy apologizing, I was busy panicking over whether or not this collossal fart would leave a mark. (It was just that strong, and I'm just that shallow.)

But victory will one day be mine. Before I left, I made Brendan look like a mental patient by wrapping his head in toilet paper and took pictures of him making ridiculous faces. Plan on those being showcased at his dress rehearsal. Mwahahaha...