I'll tell you right now, one of the worst forms of torture is trying to bench press while listening to Clay Aiken sing that dreadful Solitaire song. It's hard enough to motivate at 5:00 a.m., let alone being subjected to that car wreck.
And head phones don't work because I can't deal with something on my ears. I don't even wear a hat on the coldest winter days. So suffer I must.
Feeling for me yet? I thought so.
And speaking of "feeling," I don't care how many boobs he grabs, I still think he's gay. And annoying.
In other news, yesterday I was in the grocery store and somehow found myself in a conversation with a random woman and her friend regarding getting older.
"Oh, gawd," she said. "Ya know, suddenly all of my friends are getting married. It's like, wow, do I feel old!"
"Oh, I know," her friend nodded sympathetically. The two of them had to be all of 24 years old.
"Well," I sighed. "Wait until you start receiving birth announcements and invitations to your 10 year high school reunion."
"Totally," nodded the first girl.
"Ha!" A voice crowed from behind us. I whipped around to find a small, beady-eyed eldery woman staring at the three of us. "When you start receiving death notices about your friends, then start complaining to me. Except I'll be dead!"
And she promptly tottered away.
The three of us looked at each other. Finally I shrugged and said, "Well, that shut me up!"
I spent the rest of the evening depressed, coupled with leftover pizza. Solitaire indeed.