Girlfriend: [looking very unhappy] Oh, I feel sick.
Me: I’m sorry. Where don’t you feel well?
oh, please don’t say “my stomach”
Girlfriend: My stomach. . .
ok, well, just don’t say you feel like you’re going to puke
Girlfriend: . . .I feel like I’m going to puke.
Me: Hmmm.
Girlfriend: [exasperated sigh] I’m not pregnant.
Me: How do you know?
Girlfriend: I just know.
Me: I have an idea.
Girlfriend: No.
Me:Let’s make a pile of coat hangars at the bottom of the stairs, then you and I wrestle on the top landing, I punch you in the stomach, you fall down the stairs and land on those coat hangars. You should get naked for this.
Girlfriend: I’m. Not. Pregnant. And you’re twisted.
Me: How do you know?
Girlfriend: ‘Cus it’s what I ate for lunch.
Me: [with a renewed sense of hope] What did you have?
Girlfriend: I had a bbq sammich [she actually says "sammich" it's so cute].
Huh? We don’t have bbq here…where’d she get bbq? damn, now I want bbq.
Girlfriend: I went to Sheetz.
Me: Oh, well. . .
Girlfriend: “Oh, well,” what?
Me: Well, I guess food poisoning is God’s way of saying “Don’t eat gas station food.”
Girlfriend: Whatever.
Ten minutes later.
Me: [through bathroom door to puking girlfriend] And that’s why you don’t do that.
