[In which I type for five straight minutes stopping only when the timer goes ding]
I’m not going to lie.
I’m using this blog to hide from exercise. That’s right, I hate working out. Okay, fine. Sometimes it’s bearable. I hate the thought of working out. But usually, I feel really good afterwards. I just can’t get my imagination to extend beyond the initial image of me huffing and puffing and being genereally uncomfortable.
Blah blah blah. But pilot season is here, or at least on the horizon, and I’d love to run towards it on slightly sculpted legs and with open and toned arms and say I’M GONNA MAKE YOU MY BITCH, PILOT SEASON!
You know, you can tell a lot about someone by how they treat their dog. For instance, if, during the day, the dog owner praises and ooohs and ahhhhs and makes generally kind gestures towards a PUPPY, but then at night spends copious amounts of time berating the puppy and saying things like “Do you understand me? DO YOU? DO YOU????” as if the dog is supposed to think pensively and respond, “My goodness. I can see now the error of my ways. I’m so sorry that after being kept indoors all day, I somehow distressed you. I’m not quite sure why you’re threatening me now, but understood, understood – it’s my fault.”
To that dog owner I say f