I’d really like to know what in the Sam Hill possessed some broad to go to the gym doused in perfume. First of all, the point of a treadmill is to move your jiggly bits until they become less jiggly. This requires sweating. And unless sex is involved, there’s just nothing cute about it. 

So please get over it.

Attempting to mask it with some sickly sweet smell drives the runner next to you up a fucking wall. While she’s gasping for air in a vain attempt to keep her lungs from exploding, all she can do is gag.

This does not equate to a Good Time.

I would also like to know what made the old fart to the right of me think it was a good idea to hop on the treadmill with a fucking cup of coffee.

COFFEE! On a TREADMILL! 

Nevermind that he was going .000005 miles per hour on that contraption. But how in the fuck did he think he was doing something good to his body by adding a dehydrant? While he was sweating!

I’m just glad this happened on two different days. I may have become homicidal otherwise. 

The best part of this morning’s sweat session? Overhearing the old fart talk to a man about his calorie intake and wishing he weighed less. 

You, dear sir, are the winner of today’s Too Stupid for Words award.

Remember back when I told y’all I didn’t like sex?

Mostly, that was true. Except what I should have really said is that I don’t like BAD sex, which makes up about 95% of what I’ve had if “bad” were to equal “sex I’ve had that didn’t lead to an orgasm.” I mean, an orgasm for myself. Obviously.

I couldn’t care less if the other person(s) involved got off or not.

I kid!

(Mostly)

I’ve been known to go years without any sexy time. YEARS. Because I am anal retentive and scared as fuck about catching some nasty STI. Yes, I know condoms help but they sure as fuck do not protect against every thing.

So, my problem is that I need to know someone well enough to trust them when they tell me they’ve been tested recently. And yes, I definitely ask.

Always.

Now, ever since this motherfuckin’ too damn beautiful for words chiropractor has been puttin’ his hands on my ass and spreading my legs in funky ways to get my bones to move, I have been on the prowl. And by “on the prowl” I really mean “horny as fuck.”

Kids. I am not accustom to this and it is bugging the hell out of me.

While he’s been on the flirty side and I’ve caught him staring at both my ass and my tits, he is my damn doctor. My very own incredibly sexy, tall, dark-haired, blue eyed, chizeled, real live Dr. McSteamy.

Don’t believe me?

Well let me paint a picture for you:

[PICTURE REMOVED]

Wanna know how I got a hold of that? We’re motherfuckin’ Facebook friends. Because, yes, I am a tool and I friended him. And he’s a damn tool because he actually accepted the request.

Do y’all have any idea what I would do to this man if left to my own devices?

Whatever you’re thinking, multiply it by eleventy. I’m talking whips and chains and stilettos and lace and swings and leather and rug burns in places you couldn’t even think a rug burn would exist.

I can not get the idea of jumping on this man’s dick out of my head. For fuck’s sake, I had a damn dream about it and woke up from the goddamn orgasm.

I shit you not.

There is, of course, another catch. The man has a new girlfriend. And I KNOW BETTER than to fuck around with folks like that because I’ve DONE IT sixty katrillion times and IT NEVER ENDS WELL.

But tell that to my fucking vagina. Because she refuses to listen to me.

Oh, and I guess should have warned you this post would be chalked full of TMI, but you should know that’s just not how I work.

I love Twitter. I love tweeting with my fellow twats. And more than that, I love saying that phrase ten times fast. I mean, it’s just ridiculous.

Twats?

Ha!

Despite this admiration that I have towards tweeterificness, I do have a couple of gripes. 75% of the updates I read are boring as fuck. Even I have allowed 140 character snooze-worthy gems to be written. On more than one occasion.

I’d like to take a moment and apologize for that. Work is lame enough without me adding more boredom to your life. 

And apparently there are rules to tweeting. Rules that I never realized where there and subsequently never bothered to follow. A friend and fellow blogger shared a post on one of these rules stating that no one should tweet information that is TMI.

Uhm.

Uh…

Oops?

I should maybe come with a sign that reads TMI because I’ve never been good at worrying about other people’s squick buttons. If I want to tweet about the curiosity I have regarding the size of my chiropractor’s penis, I will.

And I have. 

Last, but not least, I am really not sure why I get follow requests from people I’ve never even heard of. Yes, I’m one of those that keeps their shit private. Ironic, I’m sure, considering my blog is here for all to see. But that’s pretty much why I keep my twitter profile on lock down.  

I’m not sure if I should be flattered or creeped out by the volume of requests I get from random sources. Mostly, I feel like I get them because somebody else’s @ reply has my name in it. So, people are just curious to see what the crap I said to initiate the response(s). But that’s a little like sticking your nose into a conversation you’re not at all a part of, isn’t it?

Since 2004, I have been a lazy asshole. It has been exactly five years since I legitimately bothered taking my health seriously. I would exercise sporatically, but never with the intention of a real lifestyle change. I mean, I used to look like this:

And yes, I realize I’ve complained about this before. But bare with me.

There are several things I would like to undertake in the near(er) future. Hiking is one of them. Running a half-marathon is another. That’s thirteen miles of solid running in a specified timeframe, people. And while I’m at it, I want to try white water rafting too.

I can barely jog for two minutes straight without my arteries screaming in protest. Despite this, I have been going to the gym every day. 

Every day I get on that treadmill and motivate myself to push just a little bit harder. Just a little bit farther. Today was the first day that I knocked out six minutes of jogging. 

To you super fit people, that’s laughable. But for me? That is the kind of moment that puts a spruce in my step and gives me more dignity than I can fully explain.

I am proud of myself.

And I missed that feeling.