I always knew there was a reason I didn’t believe them.
Me after a workout … just before I was wheeled out of the gym. Thank goodness for going to a gym where (I just realised may be a sign), a lot of paramedics attend.
Wouldn’t it be great if we could argue on paper instead?
If you could just yell at me in prose, it would be so wonderful.
I could watch my favourite show without the constant bickering. And you could watch yours. Why do we always have to pick the time we want to watch TV to relate how much better the other one could be?
We could actually think before we spat out the venom that we do. Writing often makes us think before we unleash the poison within.
You and I could make up before we actually fought. Imagine that.
We would be forced to give one another the benefit of doubt before we pounced. Maybe we’d have enough time to reflect and realise the other one’s not the only one at fault.
Now, don’t you wish you could write our argument instead of using our vocal cords as well?
Maybe we could go to the beach and read each other’s qualms while we sun bake.
I spent the whole of last week editing and fixing up 40,000 words of my next novel.
Basically, if I was “getting jiggy with it” when I started last week, I am not any more -_-
My brain is mush, even more so than usual. I hope that I can electrocute it into picking up the slack and continuing with the remainder of the book.
Wish me luck guys and if I don’t see you soon, know that I love you. It’s been good. 😛
These are the words my spin instructor said to me in the morning in the middle of a heart destroying work out.
Before I could restrain myself from the avalanche that was about to tear itself free from my endorphin spiked (and incomprehensibly inflicted with allusions of nonsensical grandeur) mind and stick a repulsive gym sock in my mouth, those twelve fateful words poured out like verbal diarrhea.
“So what you’re really trying to say is I’m fat, aren’t you?”
I know, I know. It was like watching a train derail itself and crash into some poor unsuspecting civilian (that would be me, just in case you’re wondering) in slow mo. Complete with the package of all the guts and intestines squirting out from inappropriate body parts. Even incarnating my best version of a wounded puppy dog expression didn’t save face.
She-Hitler (as I have nicknamed her) gave me one dry, uncommitted expression & ordered me to drop and give her 20.
Moral of the story? My mouth is the one part of my body that does NOT need any more exercise.
That’s how the story ends, because I died from exhaustion soon afterwards