(Last night. In bed. Me: curled up facing away from Brooke, nearly asleep. Brooke rolls over and wraps her arm around me in a cuddling embrace. Immediately, she begins fidgeting: stretching, cracking knuckles, scratching, jostling me about.)
Me: “Cuddling with you is like cuddling with a rabid wolf.”
Brooke: “How would you know?”
Me: “I know wolves, Wolfy.”
Brooke: “Whatever, Sweat Burp1.”
Me: “Really? You’re trying to make Sweat Burp stick? Good luck, Pickles2.”
Brooke: “Don’t get all C.O.M.B.y3 on me.”
Me: “There’s no such word as C.O.M.B.y. You can’t make an acronym an adjective.”
Brooke: “Sure you can.”
Me: “Like A.I.D.S.y?”
Brooke: “Have you seen Tom lately? He been looking a little A.I.D.S.y.”
Me: “That baggy dress looks really A.I.D.S.y on you. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Brooke: “Of course I am.”
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1 A few nights prior I burped while eating a particularly spicy burrito, thus grossing Brooke out by sweating and burping at the same time.
2 Referencing Brooke’s habit of incessantly picking at her nails.
3 Standing for Cranky Old Man Baby, something Brooke once designated me for complaining about a lack of cookies in the house.
Important Note: That is a picture of a band called AIDS Wolf. What?
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