20 bucks

My arm has a fever.
I know it's "for my own good", as I said to the nurse, but is it really necessary to stick 37, 000 needles into my poor, frail body? (And by 37, 000 I mean seven. And by frail I mean I didn't eat breakfast.) But seriously. I feel like there's got to be a better way to get people healthy than by viciously jabbing a rusty metal rod into their muscles.
Option #1: Maybe a pill? Then instead of injecting a live virus into the fatty tissue of your arm where it can wreak havoc with your autoimmune system... You could just swallow a little tablet and be done. It's like getting all of the awesome Spidey powers without needing to be bitten by a radioactive arachnid.

Then you could be as happy as this freakishly content woman.
*This picture has been censored for our more sensitive viewers.* 

Is there a doctor in the house?

Do you remember that time a couple of flu seasons ago when everyone was scared of swine flu? And if anyone coughed in class, everyone around them murmured, "Swiiiiine!" "He has the swine." "Oink, oink!" Well, I was thinking about that today because, guess what.

Bacon is delicious. Worth the risk.

I'm sick.

Zumba! Because we ate too much.

Two days ago was Thanksgiving. I ate and ate and ate... And gained six pounds. So last night, Julie and I decided that since we are the only ones at home, we would work out a little bit. We looked up some Zumba videos on Youtube...

We felt like the girls in the white pants, but I'm pretty sure we actually looked like the lady in the background in the red T-shirt. Which is why we made sure the blinds were closed. (Look at her around 2:35... That's us.)

We died a little bit, and sweat a lot. But it's okay, because sweat is just fat crying. And there was some fat left over from Thanksgiving that needed to cry. (Holiday leftovers are not always a good thing.)

Ode to Charlie

This post is dedicated to Charles Theodore, our beloved friend and companion. He was always here for my roommates and I, through thick and thin. Waiting for us to arrive, he greeted us on moving day with a chirpy little squeak. Every morning, he would say hello as we began a new day, thankful for such a reliable friend.

Sadly, Charlie recently met his demise. One afternoon, Shantel and I were sitting in our front room, working on homework, with Charlie peacefully watching over us with all the care of a loving parent. Suddenly, he was struck by a malicious construction worker in a dump truck. Charlie did not calmly give up his life, however. Before giving up the ghost, he smashed the rooftops of two buildings under construction, as if to say "Ha! Take that you construction worker! I'll show you who you're dealing with!" After his final punch, his broken body collapsed. I watched in horror out the window as Charlie toppled and crashed to the ground, his broken neck and crumpled body lying in a heap like a discarded umbrella. I watched as the caution tape was carefully roped around his lifeless form and as investigators began showing up at the scene. The construction workers all stood at the window, staring in disbelief at gruesome scene that lay beneath them.