Smashonistas, what did I ever do to Murphy? Damn that Murphy. Just when you think it's safe to make a pity party midnight run to your local 7 Eleven for some well deserved Rocky Road flavored Haagen Daz, a bag of Jalepeno Kettle chips and a 64 ounce Big Gulp gushing with diet Dr. Pepper, looking BUSTED, THERE IT IS, you're worst nightmare (okay not the one where you find yourself naked in front of your coworkers) but the cowardly ex who got away by employing Freudian techniques to make you hate him so you could dump him, the ex you secretly spent nights thinking of how to ruin without getting arrested is standing at the wine and beer section with his latest not so greatest flame, nightmare. (Okay so you weren't wearing your glasses). Wait a minute didn't "THE EX" move out of your neighborhood years ago or was that Google search wrong. Damn that Google search. Eeek too bad the freezer just couldn't open up and suck me in. So this wasn't my most fashionable moment. After I diligently slaved to find a great picture to put on my Facebook profile. Why Murphy why? Why did I have to have a tumorous mountain commonly known as a pimple strategically growing between my two unsightly UNwaxed eyebrows? Why Murphy, why did I have to be wearing these gruesome preschool age sweats with my faithful been chewed by more than one dog flip flops? You get the point my Smashonistas. After the initial shock of seeing "THE EX" I graciously waved from afar, ran to the counter to pay and got the hell out of there. I just pray that the Ferrari parked right next to me wasn't his but if it was I apologize for my overzealous opening of my car door. I blame the tiny stalls. Wow who knew a car door could really do all that?!
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