Getting late...

Getting late...

So, I was washing the dishes when Judas, the bag of chips asked me, "You seem pissy today."

I shrugged.  I explained that I just had a shitty day at work, and have been having a shitty day at home.

"Do you want a chip?" Judas, the bag of chips asked.

"No," I snapped.  "I want to not have had such a fucking shit fucker of a fucking day."

"You wanna talk?" Judas, the bag of chips, persisted.

I turned off the water and dried my hands.  "No.  Thanks."

I left Judas, the bag of chips, in the kitchen.  I went out into the living room and watched music videos on demand for a bit.  (Mr. Jones, by Counting Crows is on there now.  I love that fucking song.)  And as I watched a Radiohead video, I realized that I never brought Judas, the bag of chips, out to the kitchen.  I asked who may have moved him, but no one claimed to have touched any chips.  I went back to the Kitchen and there was Judas, the bag of chips.  He sat, glaring as only a bag of chips could glare. 

"What?" Judas, the bag of chips, questioned.

I shrugged it off.  Someone must have moved him and just not really thought about.  Fuck, it was probably me.

fuck