I was awaiting Carl for dinner, along with his typical hat-tipping. The way he tipped his cowboy hat and said "m'lady", just made me so...happy. He walked into the room, a black slipknot shirt on.
"Whoa, whoa. What's with the emo?" I demanded.
"Dad, it's alternative rock. Sorry, I mean, Negan, it's alternative rock," Carl replied, his stare cold.
Like Glenn's warm, slippery eyeball, my heart dropped. I thought we'd moved on from the whole "adoption" issue. I held his icy gaze. Was I actually becoming intimidated by him? It couldn't be.
"Sup," Simon chuckled, walking into the room with a rib b q.
"CAN'T YOU READ THE MOOD, A**HOLE?!" I hollered, slamming my fist.
Lucille fell out of her chair. "Are you okay, gorgeous?" I exclaimed, swooping down for her. Her beautiful wooden surface remained unscathed. I cradled her. She was a very delicate woman.
"You care more about inanimate objects than me," Carl felt the need to interject.
"Stop with your attitude. We're trying to enjoy a nice dinner," I ordered, scooping up some spaghetti. Spaghetti every day, every week. Mm.
Carl just kinda sat there. I eyed him, sipping lemonade exquisitely. "Hey, a**hat. You gonna eat that?" I demanded. Not to be like Jennica, but mm spaghetti.
"No," he mumbled, getting up and leaving. I scoffed in contempt. What could possibly have caused this kind of trauma?
