I figured out why I can't figure out anything to write on Camper's Log: it's because of all my other blogs. I have one that deals with how much I hate people, one concerning drinking, and one concerning partying on the cheap.
So let's see: Drinking, Hating, Partying. I hardly do anything else, and that's why I don't post as much as I used to. I guess I'll have to find something else to write about, but then I'll probably end up starting a new blog about that too.
Question: Am I a multi-faceted, multi-talented writer, or just a nerd with four blogs?
One thing I do that doesn't make it on the other blogs is go to the stupid gym. I exercise a lot and have actually lost a good part of my chunk. This is a very good thing because I refuse to buy clothes to fit when I'm hefty; only when I'm normal or extra-skinny. So that means my closet is mostly filled with shiny clothes I can't fit in leftover from the dot-com era and ironic t-shirts stretched out so bad you'd think the font was in letterbox.
But anyway. These days I've been spending more time in the gym exercising and less time out in the sun exercising. I wrote in my book and in a couple of magazines how lame people are who run on the treadmill instead of the road, ride an exercise bike instead of a real one, and spend time on the Stairmaster yet take the elevator. So here I am doing it.
Fans, I am a hypocrite in many, many ways. You probably didn't figure that out on your own.
So the other week it was so very nice out that I actually broke my bad habit and went for a run in the park. It was hot and the sun was shining and the wind was blowing through my long, flowing hair like fairy's breath on a shaggy dog made out of cotton candy.
I felt fast and strong and absolutely golden. (I look better with a tan.) I was smiling and saying hello to my fellow runners and dog walkers and bikers, noting how they, too, were in awe of my hotness. At the ocean, I skipped into the Beach Chalet to use their bathroom (I know every bathroom in or around the park. This is because I trained for a marathon, not because I have sex in them like the gays).
I did my business, then went to look at how handsome and sporty and beautiful I looked in the mirror while I washed my hands. It was then I noticed I must have run though a swarm of gnats way back in the forest part of the park, because I had about twelve of them glued into the sweat all over my face and neck.
Who's a pretty girl?