Everyone knew that. But this Monday was particularly heinous. I didn’t want to be in D.C. I especially didn’t want to be in D.C. after the shit way my Sunday morning ended. Flying in the opposite direction of the woman I couldn’t seem to stop sticking my dick in when she was clearly pissed at me was nearly painful. I couldn’t solve anything when I wasn’t there, and let’s face it, I was a problem solver by nature. The fact that my trip to D.C. was to meet the Malcolms, who I was irrationally pissed at, wasn’t helping matters.I called my mom the moment before I boarded my flight mid-afternoon and let her know I was on my way home. She naturally decided this was cause for celebration, and after promising I’d be there for dinner, I finally managed to hang up. By the time I was disembarking two hours later, I was seriously regretting agreeing to the invitation.My parents were pickers, and not the kind you saw on the History Chanel digging through junkyards for priceless antiques.
