I am certain Satan plays 324 holes of mini golf a day in hell.
For reasons I can't understand (or rather as I'm writing this on a Friday afternoon am too lazy to ponder), things that I usually hate are pretty dang fun when Seth and I are doing them together.
Huh. Must be because we enjoy each other's company or something. Go figure. I had no idea that was why we've been dating for the past 8 months.
So when we were running errands at my parents' house and Seth suggested a game of mini golf, my immediate response was heck yes. Recounting the fact that I played mini golf to my best friends over the past couple of days, without a beat, they responded with a quick, "You did WHAT?!" (As visions of me beating the mini golf green with my club and coming up with new combinations of four letter words danced through their heads).
For some crazy reason I thought Seth would be the Band-Aid to my open mini golf wound.
Not so much. By the ninth hole Amy the Mini Golf Beast had been revealed-- complete with sailor's vocabulary and a swing that rivals Tiger Woods and all.
Only problem was I wasn't swinging at the ball. I was swinging at whatever I could take my aggression out on. Like the nearest tree. (Have I mentioned I'm really bad at mini golf which makes me really mad?)
Thank goodness Seth realizes no one is perfect. Otherwise my putt-putt tantrum might've had him running for the hills.
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