The Sound Of Everything

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This is a promise: Before I hit 40, I’ll be deaf.

Blasting music into your ears is a great motivator when you’ve upped the treadmill to its full speed, and you’re on your ninth mile, and it’s an hour and a half since you’ve stood still.

Yes, I’ll be thin, but I won’t be able to hear a word your saying.

Luckily, one of my stepsisters knows sign-language.

Only, once my ears stop hearing, my motivation to run will wane, and I’ll turn into a fat sack of shit again. Hopefully -- while I am thin and gorgeous, with large, chiseled arms; with six-pack abs (which are just now beginning to appear -- I think -- although my tailbone skin is dark red, scabbed and rough, and my underwear is bloody after the first 50 tilted-bench sit-ups) -- I’ll have gotten enough tail so that letting myself go at 40 won’t be such a big deal.

Honestly, all I need? Just one knock-out, knows-what-she’s-doing, sexually adventurous lover for a year. After that, I’ll gladly drop my Bally’s Total Fitness Card through the shredder.

Today,
with my Borders Gift Card from the Boomstick gang,
I purchased my first Country CD:
Gretchen Wilson’s Here For The Party.
Ms. Wilson is from a Southern Illinois town called Pocahontas. Legend has it, she was bartending before she could legally drive a car.

The only other Country recording in my music library is a tape of Patsy Cline’s Heartaches.

Also, add to my Classical section, Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream & Overtures -- Claus Peter Flor, conductor, with the Bamberger Symphoniker (not a typo). It’s playing over the speakers at this very moment.

And, add to my Aerosmith collection, Just Push Play.

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