The Butterfly Effect

Sometimes, I'm pretty sure Husband and I don't actually say real words for entire days at a time -we just ramble in our “normal” banter of inside jokes and funny quotes we've picked up along the way.

So, without further ado, please allow me to enlighten you on The Butterfly Effect:

One typical Saturday we were in the truck going to Target because throughout the week I was able to make up a list of “ohmygah I absolutely have to buy this NOW” things and conned Husband not only into going with me, but actually driving my ass there. Win.

On the way to waste away my dolla dolla bills, a pretty, floaty yellow butterfly came fluttering toward our windshield. Oh this is going to be gross… I figured we’d have fluorescent smears all over the place but miraculously the bastard did some kind of stealthy butterfly-y sneak attack move that hoisted his fluttery ass up and over the truck.

“Dude, you almost just hit that butterfly,” I proclaim to Husband with a look of worry across mah pretty little wife face.

Without skipping a beat, Husband immediately assumes the persona of said butterfly. He releases his hands from the steering wheel, because, you know, driving is no longer the important matter at hand; being a BUTTERFLY is. So, he throws his hands up in the air with his elbows all tucked into his sides and starts nonchalantly flapping his hands and looking around. He looks over at me, as if I had now assumed the role of driver that nearly took his little butterfly life, and simply says, “Well fuck you too then,” in his best little matter-of-fact butterfly voice.


Needless to say, anytime we have a near insect-killing incident in the truck, it’s pretty much a race to see who can start cursing and flailing around first.

Well, fuck you too then.

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