The tears I’ve cried over the past few months have come from a variety of sources.
If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I attend a Boxercise class. It is a class with which I have a love/hate relationship; I hate the act of going but love it when I’m there. It’s a fun if intense workout and my instructor is not only friendly but also rather hot so you know…win.
Part of the class involves pairing up, doing some sparring and then running through some drills. 99.9% of the class are very mature about this and partner off pretty easily; either with friends/workout buddies or introducing themselves to strangers and just getting on with it. I think is because we are all supposed to be adults as opposed to ignorant, childish little fuckwits.
Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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