So, the Spurs lost. We’re still going to the playoffs, so stick that in your ear, Ray Allen.
I’m supposed to go to the gym today. I cannot delude myself into believing that I am exempt from such activities due to alleged illness, as my trainer informed me that so long as the symptoms are from the neck up, physical activity is permitted.
Okay, back. Bry and I weightlifted together. We kick each other’s asses. It’s a good thing.
I do adore dates. They are deliciously tasty. What I like most about them is they curb my sweet tooth in a nutritionally sound manner thereby preventing me from running to the convenience sore across the street and gorging on an entire bag of Double Stuft Oreos.
That, too, is a good thing.
Never tried dates? Blasphemy. Go and get some. Now.
Besides, I need a crack-addict-esque fruit to hold me over until pomegranates come back into season. Six months…that’s a lot of dates. I shall be very regular. Ew. Overshare. My apologies.
Voulez-voulez-vous no necesito Metamucil