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| Fuck. This. |
Seriously. Does anyone actually enjoy summer? I've hated ever since EVER. What's so great about crotch and underboob sweat? Burning hot steering wheels? Needing to be attached to an AC unit at all times? INNER THIGH CHUB RUB?
(Which brings me to a mystery I have yet to solve...chicks are always posting how it's so great to wear a skirt or dress because it's too hot to wear pants, but if I do that, my Christmas ham-like thighs will rub together all day and then I get a rash that burns like holy water on a cheap hooker. I can't just throw on a dress and then call it a day. Spanxx, shorts or Bandalettes are a must. WHAT IS YOUR SECRET, DRESS-WEARING LADIES??)
For all three (or four. I think there's a random guy in Russia who reads my drivel) of you out there in interweb land who were wondering what was up on the isle of Lilliput (get it?? Because...I'm short..haha...nevermind. I need a nap.) I'll fill you in.
1.) I have a job that supports my crippling cocaine (read: baking) habit that I hate and only sometimes enjoy. I work for two brothers, one who is a laid-back, chill boss and the other is very nice, but who turns a blind eye and deaf ear to his manic-depressive, self-medicating secretary who I refer to as The Viper, Smaug, and The Dementor. She hates life and happiness and smells like bug spray and failure. Anyway, I'm working on getting the hell out of Dodge. More as the story develops.
2.) My gym shenanigans are AWESOME but if I become one of those self-obsessed gym rats who is only focus is my body and how many calories I've had and posting constant pictures of myself flexing than I have people waiting in the wings who will knock my head against the wall and force-feed me fried chicken. Which won't require much forcing as that shit is delicious. The gym was boring for a while and to top it off there is a guy who works out there that I can't stand...an old high school classmate who is a massive douche and once asked if I was "DTF" and I said no and then he called me fat and said he is in better shape than I am. And then last Friday he watched as I did 100 squats with 135 pounds while he rode an elliptical along with the other 50+ housewives while watching Despierta America. Suck it, shitstain. Did I mention his nickname in high school was Matador? Yeah...he totes killed that elliptical man. Git swole.
3.) Also ties into the gym. One day I'm working at a deadlift rack and I'm angry (like always) because my damn hands hurt like the dickens. Guy on the rack next to me offers to let me use his wrist straps. I said yes, and now we're dating. The end.
(Nicolas Sparks, eat your heart out.)
I have to admit the beginning of the relationship was puzzling. Like, you want to hang out with me? A lot? Like, all the time? And you're giving me stuff? Does not compute.
| You and me both, Spidey. |
Anydangway, we started off as running/workout partners and it went from there. I knew I wanted to hang out with him more when, after a run in Loma Linda, I ran off to jump on the swings and he was right behind. We get up to shenanigans and tomfoolery. And cause ruckus. Good times.
Til next time, weirdos. Now get the hell off my lawn.
