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  • Writer's pictureChoo Choo


I know, I know. It's been over three months since my last post. I'm such a blogging cliché. Of course saying that probably makes it even more cliché. But I'm here now. New year, new me. (Might as well keep the clichés coming.) That's why I dragged my booty out of bed at 6am this morning and trudged to the gym in 7-degree weather (-2 with the wind chill) to get said booty handed to me in boot camp training. I no longer know what it feels like not to be sore. I've already gone thrice this week, and it's been downright decimating, leaving me with achy shaky limbs and a positive body image bordering on extreme narcissism. New year, new booty.

You'd think that 2015 would provide me with more enlightened verbiage to spout at you, my lonely audience of one, but the passage of time doesn't work like that. 2015 ain't nothing but a number.

Now that I've handily committed every awful writing faux pas in the proverbial book, I bid you adieu as I start my day. I'll update my concert calendar soon--lots of stuff coming up--but let's not get too carried away. The new me is still a hopeless procrastinator. I think if I were actually to complete a to-do list in a timely manner, it would cause a rift in the space-time continuum, gravity would reverse, and flying wallabies would take over the world and force everyone to bow up to their new galactic overlord, Saturday.

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