I woke up this morning

in the arms of a big hunka hairy manmeat.

Sadly, today is the last time anyone will wake up in those blue sheets. I've been washing them and putting them right back on my bed (which is way easier than folding them) for more than 10 years. But the poor things have been ripped and repaired so often they're looking more than a little ghetto. They're so thin in places you can read through them. And at some point this week some clumsy homo pushed a whole foot through them:

So goodbye, my faithful friends. I'll be sure to observe a moment of silence when I dump you down the trash chute today.


*sniff*


In happier news, Scarrie–The Musical was fun last night. The show is wickedly funny, the cast is loaded with talent—and with hotties of both genders. David is as delightful as his blog leads you to believe. And Andy was the best bitter, resentful, making-out-in-public-is-the-best-revenge one-night prom-chaperone stage boyfriend I've ever had. Ever.

And in far less interesting news, I'm curiously not very sore after yesterday's twelve eleven-mile run. But I woke up with a mucho sexy wife-beater farmer burn to commemorate the event. My building also woke up this morning with no water in our pipes and no lights in our hallways or elevators. Seriously—the elevators work, but somebody had to hang glow sticks in them so we could see which buttons to push. It's kinda like living on the set of CSI: Miami, where even the morgue looks like it could burst forth in a sea of go-go boys and circuit queens at any moment. Unfortunately, none of them could take a shower because we have no freakin' water.

Oh, how I wish I'd pooped before I crawled between my holy sheets last night.