I suppose you wanted to save me the embarrassment of pointing out that I had confused “CONSCIOUS” with “CONSCIENCE” in that previous entry, and so let the entry fester for four days. FOUR DAYS. And today I had the error pointed out by my cousin, who has a BACHELOR OF SCIENCES DEGREE.
And yes, I just blamed my incompetence on my readers.
And yes, this just adds insult to injury after the fitness assessment. At the launch of my writing “career”.
It’s ok, I forgive you.
Anyway, I’ve been taking Chef to the gym with me, and he’s been kicking my ass really hard. I’m pretty sure this qualifies as domestic violence, because holy shit I have a hernia and my ass is so sore it hurts to sit down.
I went to bed at 12 a.m. on Friday night, slept soundly for a million hours, and woke up feeling good for the first time since MEXICO. No kidding. And as Chef and I walked back from the gym, muscles taut and aching, we mused about the mysteries of alcohol.
Me: I wish I could feel this fit and wonderful every day.
Chef: Instead of waking up with a headache, vomiting and hating life?
Me: And questioning my morality, goals in life, self respect, etc.
Me: Let’s go get hammered.
Just another typical night at Lottie’s, home of the White Russian. Why does that place always smell like poo?