“Three days away, no more ballet.” – William Mahn.

I would love to attribute this quote to someone else seeing as how the original context in which it was delivered implied that it was actually an idiom. But I googled it and several other derivations and came up with no similar matches.

At any rate… The saying, which may or may not have been fabricated by my father, suggests that if you stop practicing ballet for three days then good luck trying to perform. The ballerina will have lost the mobility, flexibility, and strength necessary to perform at the pre-break level.

I’ve felt this way ever since that damn ski trip. I took a few days off from squats prior to the trip to be well prepared for the rigors of skiing in the Rockies and then obviously could not lift while out there. As you know, I also took a break from bloggin’ (aka stringin’ together references to movies that somehow relate to sad and inconsequential details of my life… with memes). Well, three days away and no more ballet.

I have struggled to get back into a rhythm writing (example: I just spent 5 minutes typing and retyping rhythm and could not prevent spell-check from underlining it. When I type ‘rythym’ just TELL ME HOW TO SPELL RHYTHM.) I also seem to have lost so much strength in my legs that I worked for weeks to gain.

This was basically a 235 word apology for writing such a boring post last time. It’s not my fault. It’s nature. Oh and I think I was still partially brain-dead from my hangover.

The plan for this week was to go see Friends With Kids and inevitably relate the themes and issues to the current state of my life. But instead I got one of those “Hey Mike…” texts where the girl cancelled an hour before hand. Something about allergies. Like I asked her out on a picnic or something. No worries. Also no reason to begin a text with ‘Hey Mike’. I know my name.

Then I thought about doing a solo-op mission but became self-aware of what I will feel seeing a movie about 2 friends who miss the marriage and babies boat and are jealous that all of their friends have already paired off. Nope. 21 Jump Street makes a heck of a lot more sense right about now. Reliving the glory days. Thats what I want.

So since I have not seen any movies recently to tie together all the threads in my life into one coherent blog post, let’s consult the recent comments section.

Jack says

Don’t sell yourself short on texting. You also came up with the idea of taking pictures of yourself pooping then texting them randomly. That’s pretty cool.

WHOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

I don’t do that. Why would someone do that? Seems totally inappropriate. You must have my name spelled wrong in your phone.

It does remind me of something though. You ever get the feeling that there is something else going on around us in which we are totally unaware? By which I mean… are we suppose to send dong pictures to girls we like?

It seems to be a staple of the Brett Favre and Anthony Weiner school of texting.

In a parallel universe a couple ordinary people, me, and Brett Favre will be at a party discussing women and someone will get a girls number and we will debate how to text her. I’ll probably say something like ‘just text her right now. If she likes you then she’ll be ok with it. If she doesn’t then atleast you’ll know quickly’. Whereas Brett Favre will look incredulously at me, grab the phone, put it in his pants, and instagram that shit straight to twitter.

No pictures in this post because we’re keeping this SFW.

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