I have been working out for almost six months, people. Six months! This is somewhat demented. In the history of mankind, I have never stuck with an exercise routine for this long. It's like asking a pubescent male to remember to shower everyday or a kindergartner to stop picking his nose and eating it. I've succeeded in all of the above. Well, mostly.
So what does this working out do for me? Well, I can generally feel smug. So that's good. But also there have appeared these guns. Not airsofts or magnums or tommys, but lovely little biceps and triceps. Imagine me kissing them right now. See? Smug.
Now that you hate me sufficiently (I would), you have to know that all this is because of Cindy Whitmarsh. Okay, okay, and also my smug sister. But Cindy, too. I heart Cindy Whitmarsh. I would marry her workouts if I lived in England and could marry anything I wanted.
So now all I have to do is keep it up. Pshaw. Just because it will be winter soon and it will be dark and lonely and my job will shortly take over my life like a python squeezes the life out of jungle monkeys and my hours at home will diminish and the stress will stack up like unused phone books doesn't mean I'm giving up! I can't. I mustn't. I shouldn't. It can't happen!! If you could see my face, you would see possibly some spinach in my teeth and then you would see the look on my face which would be a look of pathetic pleading. I must press forward in exercise! I must be determined and relentless. Now my face looks relentless. Especially the eyes. They say (only metaphorically) I will succeed!
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Cereal (Original Posting: 9/1/10)
I don't cook. I won't apologize for it. It's not that I can't. No really. I can cook if I want. But why would I want? Especially not when there's cereal. Someone once told me that cereal is like dog food for people. That's a horrible, misguided falsehood. I feel sorry for that guy. Living in the dark like that. No Fruity Pebbles or Honeycomb to comfort him. See, I love cereal. Sugar cereal. I even love the characters, especially the generic ones (shout out to my Marshmallow Mateys and Cocoa Roos). But our relationship, mine and cereal's, has not always been so smooth. It's not that cereal doesn't love me back. Ours is a love that defies time and space. Yet there was once one mutual enemy that almost tore us apart. It's hard to talk about even today. But for the sake of cereal, I will try.
I've always loved cereal. From the beginning of time... since I could eat solids. Cereal has been there for me through the toughest times. Apple Jacks, Cap'n Crunch, Corn Pops, Cocoa Puffs, Cookie Crisp. I've loved them all. The only problem was the milk. Milk had it in for me. As it turned out, I was lactose intolerant. How could this be, you ask incredulously. And you should. With a hearty helping of incredulity. Even after this heartbreaking milky discovery, I couldn't give up on my cereal. Years of stomach aches and embarrassing gastrointestinal breakdowns later, I discovered soy milk, lactose-free milk, rice milk. Yet these were all disgusting, if not utterly bank-breaking. Something had to give. My precious cereal and I made the impossible decision to take a break for a while. Nothing definite. But I was still destroyed.
Eventually, while standing in the dairy aisle one Saturday afternoon, daydreaming of Trix, Honey Smacks, Froot Loops, even Frosted Mini-wheats and Raisin Nut Bran, I decided to try to appeal to our vicious enemy milk one last time. I bought a half-gallon of skim, giddy with the thought of where I would visit next: the beloved cereal aisle.
It had been so long. So long since I had traveled down that exquisite aisle to do anything but yearn from afar. I quickly filled my basket. Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Honey Oh's, Life. Oh, how I'd missed them. But the trial of our separation was not over. We had yet to overcome the intolerance keeping us apart. As I sat down to my first bowl of Honey Smacks in several months, I said a little prayer. Please help me my intolerance for the cereal I do love.
Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was the prayer. Whatever it was, cereal and I currently enjoy a full relationship. Milk still provides an occasional rift, but after that infamous breakup, cereal and I know that it's better to be together than apart. This is why I don't cook. Cereal has saved my life. I love it. It loves me. I don't have to worry about cleaning a million dishes, waiting expectantly near the oven or microwave, wasting leftovers. I pour one bowl. Just me and the cereal. It's synergistic. It's mind-blowing. It's my love for cereal.
I've always loved cereal. From the beginning of time... since I could eat solids. Cereal has been there for me through the toughest times. Apple Jacks, Cap'n Crunch, Corn Pops, Cocoa Puffs, Cookie Crisp. I've loved them all. The only problem was the milk. Milk had it in for me. As it turned out, I was lactose intolerant. How could this be, you ask incredulously. And you should. With a hearty helping of incredulity. Even after this heartbreaking milky discovery, I couldn't give up on my cereal. Years of stomach aches and embarrassing gastrointestinal breakdowns later, I discovered soy milk, lactose-free milk, rice milk. Yet these were all disgusting, if not utterly bank-breaking. Something had to give. My precious cereal and I made the impossible decision to take a break for a while. Nothing definite. But I was still destroyed.
Eventually, while standing in the dairy aisle one Saturday afternoon, daydreaming of Trix, Honey Smacks, Froot Loops, even Frosted Mini-wheats and Raisin Nut Bran, I decided to try to appeal to our vicious enemy milk one last time. I bought a half-gallon of skim, giddy with the thought of where I would visit next: the beloved cereal aisle.
It had been so long. So long since I had traveled down that exquisite aisle to do anything but yearn from afar. I quickly filled my basket. Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Honey Oh's, Life. Oh, how I'd missed them. But the trial of our separation was not over. We had yet to overcome the intolerance keeping us apart. As I sat down to my first bowl of Honey Smacks in several months, I said a little prayer. Please help me my intolerance for the cereal I do love.
Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was the prayer. Whatever it was, cereal and I currently enjoy a full relationship. Milk still provides an occasional rift, but after that infamous breakup, cereal and I know that it's better to be together than apart. This is why I don't cook. Cereal has saved my life. I love it. It loves me. I don't have to worry about cleaning a million dishes, waiting expectantly near the oven or microwave, wasting leftovers. I pour one bowl. Just me and the cereal. It's synergistic. It's mind-blowing. It's my love for cereal.
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