I should have known things were bad when all the cookies went away. And by all the cookies, I mean all the cookies. An entire batch of chocolate-chip. More dough pucks than most people have fingers and toes. My wife made those cookies. I walked into the kitchen and noticed them cooling on a rack. Decisions were made.
There was, as Arlo Guthrie once sang, a massacree.
I regret nothing. But also everything, up to and including that bit roughly 20 minutes later where your narrator’s upper digestive tract yelled angry noises and attempted to kill him from the inside out.