So a weird thing happened at a shop I worked at the other day. A guy asked me if peanut butter was gluten free and as with most questions, I counted to three to suppress my snarky comment and create an appropriate answer instead. I replied that, in general, pb was gf and that I considered myself a celiac and I definitely ate peanut butter. At the moment I cold him I was celiac he turned on his heal to look at me with this giant grin on his face. He walked over and tried to make some flirty small talk about gluten. And I thought, what’s going on here. Is he…? Omg I have heard of a lot of creepy fetishes but I think this guy gets off on celiacs?! What. The. Fuck. Nothing says sexy small talk like discussing gluten induced bloating, cramping and diarrhea. I pictured, instead of Christian Mingle, J Date and Dharma Match there would soon be Veggie Match, Lactose Intolerant Lovers and Celiac Singles (because apparently in my head religion is the same as diet?). Celiac singles, where the most annoying restaurant goers can come together, accidentally eat a cracker, bloat, fart and then eventually violently eliminate with a partner! Celiac singles, find your gluten intolerant mate who understands how stressful the subject of oats truly can be. Anyways, the whole thing stressed me out that the guy found my sad and angry gut a turn on. Move along creeper, I won’t even tell you my dairy issues, it might push you over the edge.

Well I just realized that this year it’s the last season of Mad Men, Californication and above all, Sons of Anarchy. I told Hennie there was no reason to live past this year. All the fun in the world will have stopped. A life without Don Draper, Hank Moodie and Jax?! And no JOAN & JEMMA? My female tv heroes?? Fuck it. My enjoyment in life was coming to an abrupt and stressful halt. What’s the point. Hennie shook his head and left the room. Thank you for the support in my time of need.

There is a guy at the gym that wears those weird muscle shirts that look more like pinnies (those stupid disgusting plastic vests you had to wear in gym classes). Where the whole side of the body is exposed and when standing sideways, nipples can be seen. I don’t know why it stressed me out so much to see man nipple but I nearly fell off my treadmill. I wanted to tell the guy his choice of shirt had offended me and unless he was planning on doing some breastfeeding at the gym, I wasn’t sure why I needed to see his nips at all.

We had a date day again, sushi again, beer again. The server was not very happy to be working on Good Friday it seemed. Hennie and I tried to kill her with kindness to lighten her mood. At one point when she delivered another order of yam tempura rolls to us, Hennie was so excited that he sang thank you with a long extended note at the end. She left and he looked at me and said, I sing to her and still no smiles? Yikes. I mentioned to Hennie that I was annoyed with all the Buzzfeed quizzes that were coming out but still felt compelled to take some of them. I took which SNL character I was and got Will Ferrell which is not what I expected. I always saw myself much more as a Tina Fey or Mike Myers sort. Hennie said they were all stupid. Soon they would have what kind of fart are you? Silent a deadly? Tily-a-whirl? Wet? At this point I choked and told him maybe he should lower his voice slightly. People were eating. As we were driving home, the David Guetta/Usher song called Without You came on. Hennie turned it up and said that this song reminded him of me, sweetly. I looked at him and said this song reminded me of Usher and he was super hot.

I decided to buy my first ever “Women’s Health” magazine. What a waste of $5.99, seriously. I thought maybe there would be some motivating articles and some new killer exercises I would get excited about. But no. There were reader questions like “I’m sleeping with a guy who is vocal about his fantasies, but when we get into bed, he never follows through. What gives?” When I read that I was pretty sure that was not an actual question sent in by an actual reader but a stupid question that the writer put in so he could talk about indulging his own fantasies. On another page there were diagrams for which sex positions are best for the penis size you were dealing with. I was like what? That’s a thing? Wow, I just learned something. The “Sex Secret” pages were just filled with hilarity. How many erections do men get a day? The uncut truth about circumcision. Which states sell the biggest condoms and which ones sell the smallest. (Spoiler-apparently all my single friends should be traveling to North Dakota, South Dakota and Rhode Island). And my fave, how many drinks does it take before your penis stops working? It was so golden! And I thought, I will never ever buy this fucking magazine again. What a shitty, shitty rag. But my favourite article was this, in big letters it said GET OUSTIDE!! The letters were against a beautiful backdrop of blue sky and mountains. And then right underneath it said #GetOutside on Twitter! And there we go. Way to kill the message. Go outside but tweet about it while you do it. Argh! I usually don’t believe in regrets but I wish I had not bought this magazine and had instead bought the Star that was a tell all about how fucked up Angelina Jolie’s family was…and how she apparently does underwater screaming therapy. That would have been WAY BETTER then this shit.

Thanks to sodahead.com for the image;)