Because I'm nice

Following on from my earlier discussions with Monkey Boy, we were lying there, snuggled up, and he reiterated the “you’re nice” point again.

Which is really lovely to hear.

“Why am I nice?” I enquire.

I probably shouldn’t have, but I did. I’m a masochist like that.

“You’re really grumpy in the mornings,” he tells me.

“Yes, we know that. But we’re supposed to be talking about why I am nice.”

“I dunno, you’re just, you know, nice.”


“You have to wear a sports bra when you’re walking up stairs.”

Hmmm. Glad we cleared that up.

No wonder I feel so special …

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