My baby served me love on a plate (paper)
An injured leg on the Lady Trainer (sic) at the gym is causing me to limp around all day. What did you do to your leg? People want to know. Oh, you know, I stammer: I fell down the stairs. One time in high school, I broke my leg during a rad sleigh-riding trick and the questions which subsequently followed were answered in all manner of creative ways. But the truth, as is the lesson of US foreign policy, was avoided at all costs. And here I find myself slipping up. But sometimes you just can’t help yourself, as is the case with most social boners (a sentence which, even as I write it, seems problematic and so terribly rife with sordid sub-textual ribaldry that I probably won’t sleep tonight. Which also—actually, never mind).

The root of my entire problem today acutely broils down to the fact that somebody brought in sticky bun pastries, which has me bouncing off the walls of my cubicle. There’s something so delectably sweet about them that when your coworker who brought them eyes you suspiciously on your third trip for more, you cannot help but ice that same person out, with the tacit suggestion of, get-the-fuck-out-of-my-face. But now that I think of it, the whole messy equation really probably will relate back to obsessively riding the lady trainer tonight, for an endless succession of pulled muscles and second rate excuses and social boners. Or however you say.