Thank you for insisting I take a tour of your home, Sandra!
First of all, I’m sorry I said, “No, I’ve seen a shit-ton of homes.” I was hungover as hell. Thank you for allowing me to postpone the tour until I’d grabbed myself a large glass of wine.
To be fair I was only in your house to help celebrate your kid’s birthday, a home-tour was not mentioned on the Evite. I’m not a fucking realtor, Sandra.
Thank you for declaring that I “simply must see what we’ve done with the breakfast nook.” I’ll be honest, Sandra, I’ve never seen such a fucking majestic breakfast nook.
I’m sorry that I told your son that “One day the sun will engulf the earth, so it doesn’t really matter” when he told me he lost his Pokémon cards.
Thank you for showing me your Zen Meditation Room. I could have sworn I was in fucking thirteenth-century feudal Japan for a minute there, Sandra.
I’m sorry I said, “Like sex pests do.” when you showed me how you can lock all the interior doors in your house via a voice-activated app.
Yes, I did notice that the guest bedroom was nautically themed, Sandra. It was nautical as fuck.
I’m sorry I said, “Let them live in your refinished basement then.” When you told me the homeless problem was the great shame of our times.
I’m sorry I said, “They can technically be programmed to drive anti-vaxxers off cliffs” when you showed me the stupid space doors on your Model X Tesla.
Sorry for telling your daughter that “I don’t negotiate with terrorists” when she demanded I give her some of my muffin.
I’m sorry I threw my glass of wine on your wolfskin rug, I thought the bastard was coming at me.
Thanks again for insisting I take a tour of your home, Sandra!