jogging.

Jogging. It's what I do when, instead of going to the gym like I've been saying I will for two weeks, I eat junk food and blog.
You ever wonder why they call it food blogging? Nobody wants to say they flog for fun. What one does behind closed doors is their business and theirs alone.
Sometimes, when I go through Facebook photos of my old life, I want to comment on all pictures of people I've had sex with. People with whom I've had sex, that is. Wouldn't it be neat if one day you logged into your FB account and found that some girl from 5 years ago commented on your photo that you'd slept together? It could do nothing but make life more interesting, albeit less mysterious.
Right. Well there's only fifteen minutes before noon, who wants a beer while it's still a.m.?

Part 1-Me, the possible rapist--only statutory.

It's finally happened. I've been forced to start a blog. I mean, no one's got a gun to my head, but this morning (take a deep breath and sit down if you aren't already) my boyfriend of two years said I'm like his mom. All I did was recommend that he not stick a wet spoon in the sugar jar because it creates gross lumps. Is that so wrong? I mean, how are we going to raise children to be upright, productive members of society if we live like animals?
Not that we have children. Nor are we planning on it in the near future. One day we'll be married with children, though, and I refuse to bring up children in a sticky house with lumps in the sugar.
"You're like my mom or something." That's what he said. As he went back to playing World of Warcraft for the third hour since waking, knuckles popping, unshowered head wrapped cosily in it's cap, I couldn't help but wonder if he lied about his age.