Anyway, as Fergie and Will.I.Am. came on stage, my boy muted the TV and came up with a plan to make better use of the upcoming twenty minutes, wink wink. As most of the country wondered if Fergie would pee her pants, things got warmer between us. He took off his glasses, and I shed a sweater. Hands wandered, moans escaped, and we spent the intermission making very good use of our time.
Since I'm all romantic and shit, I pulled the dude move and started watching the game over his shoulder as we kept making out. Classy, right? When I squealed during a good play that didn't coincide with any sweet move of his, my boy realized what was going on. Busted. He understood, though, and we straightened ourselves up and returned to the game, a little closer together on the sofa this time. As he went to put his glasses back on, they were nowhere to be found. Where were they eventually located, you may ask? Under my big ass, that's where. They were retrieved, arms akimbo, MUCH worse for their lack of wear.
This leads me to my point.
Y'all, please tell me that I'm not the only one who's done this? What have you broken in the name of passion? Leave me a comment about knocked over lamps, chipped teeth, shattered windows, and broken headboards. We're all in this together, after all.