Courting

The days in which I forget to put on my deodorant are my sweatiest days.
I have many sweatiest days.

Gather 'round. Let's get everyone caught up, here.
I know that those of you who are slightly more obsessive have surely been wondering where I've been.
The Savanah. That's where I've been.
Not to hunt, or anything.
It's just that people keep saying that Lions are the king of the jungle.
And call me egotistical (many do) but I believe that it could be me.
So, the lions and I had a sitdown about it.
I got into a bit of a tussle with the alpha of the pride, but eventually we both agreed that we said some shit that we 'just didn't mean.'
We made up over a gazelle carcass, and then got drunk on Irish Car Bombs.
That's what you'd call a political drink title:
The Irish Car Bomb.

Okay, so I'm whatever. Dating someone.
I've a temporary life partner.
A potential spare kidney.
A gal.
A missus.
Possibly.
But not really. Because any term that refers to commitment beyond a week freaks girls out these days.
Someone utters 'girlfriend' and women just scatter.
Now, I'm not one to kiss and tell.
But let me detail all of our shared moments within the last three weeks.
Kidding! Kidding.
On our second date, or whatever I'm supposed to call it, I took her to a tennis court because it was the most romantic place I could think of.
I don't get out much.
I will say this:
Her name is Kerri. People call her Nan.
She wears the right sort of glasses and occasionally drinks jasmine tea.
Shit.
There's someone at the door.
Hang on.
Nobody there.
Creepy.
She's never had a bisque.
She seems sane.
That's all you're getting.
I will give you details of the various adorable things I will do at this person's behest as they unfold.

Some may blame this newfound on my lackluster blog presence as of late.
Which is fine.
Personally, I blame minority races.
But then, they're responsible for most problems, aren't they folks?