So...
I was all prepared to up and stomp out (I kind of did, actually...I mean, you couldn't HEAR the stomping, but I was totally all stomp-stompity for a bit). I went into insta-delete-everything mode, thinking "I ain't goin' back. I wanna go pout a while, and I AIN'T goin' BACK!"
But then I ate half a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream (oh, who am I kidding? I ate the whole thing. Hey...maybe THAT explains why I feel kinda...sick...), and talked with my husband, and I realized...
Nobody meant to hurt my feelers or offend me (which is surprisingly difficult to do, honestly, so I'm not real sure why it was so easy all of the sudden). In fact, it was good advice. Er...not that I'm heeding it so much, but that's not to be disrespectful or spiteful, it's because my husband is totally cool about stuff.
So I'm not going to actually pull a major drama-queen move and never return (though maybe some people wish I would do that). I slapped a band-aid on the owie and it'll be totally gone by morning.
...that ice cream is gonna come back to haunt me, I just know it.