Yesterday after returning from a run I had taken off my shoes to stretch in the grass behind my house. This is pretty standard practice for me, and as it was rather steamy out yesterday, I noted some bees traipsing through the grass. I don't have much to back up this observation, but any time I seem to see bees out in the grass, it is also hot as balls. So, shortly after taking note of how much it would suck to be stung by a bee and moving out of the way of one that seemed particularly smitten with me, I found myself in a bit of a distracted daze until I felt a shitty little pinching in my left arch. As luck would have it, there was a bee, still attached no less, and I had to pluck the little bastard off. Luckily I'm not allergic, so some ice did the trick pretty well, but still, fuck you bee.
Still, I would take a couple more bee stings in exchange for the behemoth blisters I managed to get right behind both big toes, between the end of the toe and the beginning of the sesamoids. The bitch of it is, that this is right where the toe bends, so once you have improperly treated your blisters, they don't exactly feel peachy. I think blister etiquette says something along the lines of wait it out or, if you do drain it, to leave the skin intact. For me, my MO has always been to cut the whole damn thing off with a pair of nail clippers maybe slap on a bandaid, and hope for the best. This has actually worked surprisingly well in the past, but these bastards want none of it. Note my use of bastard once again.
Anyway, in non foot-related news I also baked one of the most attractive and delicious blueberry pies this afternoon. I actually took a picture with my camera because I am that much of a loser, but not so much of a loser that I bothered to upload it and post it here.
Seeing as I am on an accidental "b" theme here, I feel I must mention my most recent Sunday morning. After a long evening of booze and food (read also: wedding) I was feeling decidedly money. The food and booze had seemingly offset one another perfectly, leaving me in that wonderful state of sociable, standable (since this isn't a word: capable of standing), and able to remember the nights events. So it is that I blame a spot of eggplant for my Sunday morning woes. Awake by six AM and feeling poorly in the belly region, I lay there, sleeping intermittently, until eight or so. At that point I knew a number two was coming, and perhaps a bit of a boot as well. Sitting there, essentially having completed my deuce session, I knew I was about to hurl but had not the time to flush the toilet so, seeing as it was a hotel room, yacked in the sink. I blame the eggplant I say because that is pretty much all I saw in the sink. I can't describe the fun as I flushed the toilet, commenced booting anew and then transferred chunks from sink to john. Another sure sign of foul vegetables afoot was that I felt absolutely like a million dollars after the yack. Hell I popped out the door to run five or so miles right after.
Catch you on the flipside...
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