Be your bestfriend, tell the truth, and overuse I love you, go to work, do your best, and don't outsmart your common sense.

If I eat another cookie I think I'll literally fucking die. Maybe it's a combination of being a complete nerd and an EMT but I'd love to have a glucometer right now and check my blood sugar. It's at least four hundred. At least.

Oh god, this is worse than a hangover.

So tomorrow's game plan:
Run off the cookies that have migrated to my ass.
Match my sit ups(sit up to pound), of a small horse.
More than my weight in squats, with weights.
Shoulders.
Get completely obliterated while wearing nothing more than simpson (read, king of the hill will also suffice) boxers and Hane's boy's S undershirt.
Followed by a little Call of Duty action, a few drunk dials, and passing out by midnight.

Yep, that's my fucking game plan.


I need to kick my ass in gear, drop the 5 or so pounds of weight (not water), get my ass back into some triathlons and a marathon for that lovely little pause between fall semester and paramedic school. Besides, I'm running out of race t-shirts and let's be honest, I don't do the races to run myself into the ground, shred my ligaments, or for that moment of bliss crossing the finish line (they all start to mesh after a while). No, I do it for the t-shirts and that small complex I get when I'm ambling through public with a triathlon/race shirt and legs as solid as fucking granite.