“You just— I can not believe you.”
“Mm srry.”
“I mean, what is— oh for fuck’s sake, I’ve stepped in it now.”
“Mm srry.”
“It’s like you purposefully tried to stain or soak every fucking surface in the room.”
“Mm srry.”
“I need a towel. And fresh socks. Do you have a condition?”
“Mm s— wht?”
“Do you have a condition, other than stupidity? Like, is there something wrong with you?”
“Wht? Nuh.”
“So this is all, what, a festive little decision you’ve made? Were you decorating for the holidays with your fucking vagina? How very Gwenyth.”
“Mm srry.”
“Your secretion tsunami has soaked through to the mattress pad. My bed is not your diaper, you disgusting piglet.”
“Mm srry.”
“You say that, but every time we have company over, you do this. It’s pathological.”
“Mm srry.”
“Are you done apologizing to Mr. Thompson yet?”
“Mm— gkkkk-gkkk-gkkk guh gkkk—!”
“Getting there, it seems. Jesus, I need to open a window…”