My facial expressions are not correlated to my happiness levels

Finally! The official photographer from the Dubai festival uploaded his pics onto Fbk yesterday! It turns out that I look like a prissy know-it-all when I dance. Yippee. This pic however, I enjoy. You can see traces of the prissiness, but really that’s just my look of intense concentration/mild panic, mixed with enjoyment and satisfaction.

photo cred: Farantini, the amazing photographer of all kizomba events @

When I first danced with that guy on Day 1 of the festival – hands down, one of my favorite leads ever! He can make me DO things!! – he surprised me by pulling that move. I didn’t expect it, the sudden falling forward, so maybe definitely I screeched. Loudly – I don’t have an indoor voice even when I try. Classic dance styling option: startle your partner into almost dropping you. Imma trademark that, stat.

Notice how my mouth is closed this time? That’s what 4 days of non-stop dancing will produce: no more hearing-loss for my dance partners.

Cue many minutes of total non-productivity, as I perused through all those pics, bringing back small moments I’d already forgotten.

It’s the “bringing back” part that I struggle with. When I first got back to Montreal, I didn’t want to let go of the intense happiness I’d felt in Dubai. I made the mistake of assuming everything I associated with this trip – including the friendships and all emotions – must be in the past, distinct from my present. And that is true, kinda.

This Dubai trip proved to me that I have the capacity to feel happiness, and the capacity to dream. I created deep bonds with friends, both new and old; these friendships changed me, as all love and shared experiences must. Therefore, who I am today, post-trip, is different than who I was pre-trip, because of the people that I met in Dubai. My anxiety lied to me last week: it is false to assume that all these lovely people are continuing to live their lives, without me, and I without them. We all bear the marks of each others’ influence, stemming from those moments of intersection. That eternal connectivity is just as true as the physical truth that we all apart now, sprinkled across the world.

If I can feel that grateful and connected to the people I spent 4-8 days with, perhaps, maybe, I should refocus my gratitude on those that I share my daily life with? There are so many opportunities for happiness in my Montreal life, that I frequently don’t notice, distracted by the noise that is adulting. Like my Baba taught me: “give us this day our daily bread”. That means my happiness is not stuck in the past, nor is it tied to the outcome of goals set in the future. Happiness is felt in the now, if I will but let myself be open to it. It can be found in my #dreamteam that smiles when they see me, and care and worry about me as much as I try mentor them. In the zany disorganization of Teacher’s dance classes. In the grey weather that is starting to show green tinges of summer. In a good workout with Coach and my gym crew. In my favorite ice cream parlor opening on Sunday for the spring-summer season. In a Friday-night supper with my friend & her fam that I haven’t seen in a few months. In the satisfaction of knowing that I did a good day’s work, boring accountant-style.

Dubai taught me I can be happier than I ever thought possible.

Montreal will teach me to enjoy every day that I build a life of happiness for myself.

Them happiness goals tho!


My Arab & Muslim family

When I told BossMan and IronSweetie (Dynamo‘s brother & sis-in-law) I was coming to Dubai, they insisted I stay with them.

“Vanilla, of COURSE you will stay with us, you are family. Don’t insult us by staying anywhere else.”

You are family. Strong words. I wondered if perhaps the phrasing was slightly hyperbolic and dramatic, as is sometimes the case when dealing with Arabs, and especially with BossMan (#dramaqueen).

Dynamo’s wedding last year.

IronSweetie took me under her wing: teaching me how to dance & introducing me to her family. Showering me with love, despite us only having met twice, briefly. I was Dynamo’s friend, I had been a friend of BossMan prior to his move to Dubai; that was all she needed to know, to befriend me.

Dynamo insisted I participate in the wedding pictures, adjusting his bowtie. After the first dance, when the dance floor opened up to family and close friends, I hung back, until BossMan yelled at me to join them, because I belonged.

I cannot dissociate my mother’s sudden death with Dynamo’s incredible care of me. Which is perfect, really: my mother was Love. It is fitting that her death triggered one of the most perfect demonstrations of Love I’ve experienced.

Dynamo had to leave for a month-long business trip; he almost missed his flight, taking care of me in the immediate aftermath of my mother’s death. He was distraught that he’d miss her funeral. I tried to explain that he had misunderstood: his presence at her funeral, while lovely, was irrelevant. In the Russian Orthodox faith, a person’s soul stays on Earth for 3 days after their death – on the third day, it departs to (hopefully) heaven. Therefore, my mother had seen his kindness and help towards me and my father. She knew we were loved, and that would free her soul to continue on its journey. He had done more good than he could know – he had helped my mother.

2 days later, at the wake at the funeral parlour, I was surprised to see Dynamo’s sister arrive, alone. I’d met her a handful of times, over the years, but we were not particularly close. She bore a beautiful bouquet of flowers, with a card. She met my family, paid her respects, and stayed 30-45 minutes making perfect small talk and giving her support.

“Our thoughts & prayers are with your family. May God help you within hard and good times. God bless her.”

I assumed Dynamo had sent his sister to represent his family, since he was out-of-town and BossMan had moved to Dubai. I was wrong. She volunteered. Those beautiful – perfect – words were her own. I carry that card with me always, to this day.  (Yes, it is water-stained from my tears.)

Dynamo’s family is devoutly Muslim. My family, especially my parents, is devoutly Russian Orthodox. Dynamo’s sister found the perfect words to bridge the (irrelevant?) gap in our faiths. In the Russian Orthodox faith, we believe that praying for the forgiveness of sins of the departed matters, and contributes to their salvation – our human understanding of time is inevitably too narrow when compared to the Eternal. Similarly, I believe that the prayers of my Muslim darlings for my mother’s soul have contributed to her salvation. That they would care about her salvation, and pray for her, fills me with endless gratitude and love.

BossMan and IronSweetie hosted me in Dubai, treating me always, showering me with generosity and time, despite it being a busy work week for them. We traded stories, shared moments of vulnerability. They showed me their world. I spent time with each one individually and together and met some of their friends. They were the best possible ambassadors for Dubai – answering all my questions and explaining cultural differences.

Their love was so strong. I resisted at first: I felt unworthy of such generosity and kindness. But Love, when untainted by other human failings, is too strong to resist. With every day I spent with them, I grew to understand and accept that I am family. They are family.

This may have always been the case. But this trip finally made me understand.

I love them so.

May God bless the Dynamite family.

Recap of this trip so far:

2017: coping with the terror of joy 

I’m sitting in my Qc uncle’s family room, slightly tipsy, sipping some port, listening to Leonard Cohen.

I feel like weeping.

This was a good holiday season. Unlike last year, I didn’t have a blow out fight with my father. True to the past 7 years, I did all my Xmas shopping on the 24th, in a state of panic, guilt and elation. 25th at my godmother’s, as I’ve done for as long as I can possibly remember: a day of food babies, mundane chit chat, terrible jokes and SO MUCH love. My father and I left Montreal early on the 26th, and made it to Quebec city by lunch time, and have been spending our time with my darlings ever since.

I want one. #socute #corgipuppy #justlikethequeen #auntiejune #xmas #familytime #selfienation

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WE MATCH!! #socute #familytime #matchingpajamas #jellybeans #cousins #cousinlove #xmas #bestpresentever

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Domestic bliss. La belle cousine, les beaux chiens. #xmas #familytime #dogstagram #cuties

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It makes me SO happy to see my darlings grow into mature adults. They might be younger than me, but they impress me with their wisdom and courage in their quests to become the truest and best versions of their selves that they can be. Nothing is better for my soul than time with my cousins.

I spent the day remotely working from Qc city; tomorrow I will do the same. Friday is shaping up to be a full day at the office as I lead the year-end close like a big girl. Back at it, Jan 2nd – I’ll hit the ground running. Not gonna lie, work is stressing me out. But even as I feel pukey when I look at my impossible to-do list, I feel joy at having found my dream-job, dream-team and dream-company. Joy at being healthy enough to struggle with this challenge, and the opportunity at manifesting an important side to my personality (smart, assertive, ambitious, possibly bitchy, mentoring leader).

I have a long list of people I am supposed to try squeeze in my few hours of free time after work tomorrow and the 30th. My NYE plans are yet undetermined, but my friend Superwoman has determined that wtv happens, we will see each other. I’ve said it before, and I will say it again: I’m blessed with the best friends ever.

So why, if everything seems to be falling into place, do I feel like weeping?

True to my cerebral self, I tried various theories: shame at the insane amount of weight I’ve piled on these holidays, and fatigue at always having body-hatred issues. Stress from work, knowing I am likely to miss some deadlines on important projects. Adolescent insecurity at not having firm NYE plans: nobody loves me, I must be lame. Dismay at not having a particular boy to flirt with at the moment. But those are all superficial discomforts, and do not justify this deep malaise. Part of it is finding myself with the headspace to hear my own thoughts; the let-down after a particularly intense December, and the anxiety/fear of a big January. My paranoid brain, resentful at having been given the backseat for so many months, is trying to get itself heard.

And there we have it. I feel like weeping, because I am too happy. Too bone-deep happy. This is the closest I’ve ever been to being fully myself, unshackled by fears and insecurities. When I wrote the post Aiming for Happiness, back in August, who would have thought I was so close to finding this level of joy? Having found it, I’m petrified. Petrified that it is too good to be true, that I don’t deserve it, that the Universe will deem that I am a fraud, and true to its habit of bringing people to their knees for the fun of it, the Universe will strip me of my joy and send me back down the dark path of depression. Its been 2.5 years since my last depression, 18-20 months since my symptoms lapsed and 7 months since I stopped therapy. I’m due. Fundamentally, I do not believe I deserve this level of well-being/contentment/peace. Or so my paranoid brain whispers to me. Like Judd Apatow explains so well:


I feel like weeping, because I am tired of constantly battling my paranoid brain. On the eve of 2017, I wish myself the freedom to feel joy without the terror.


P.s. Interesting article in the newyorker on happiness.

The art of photobombing

Exhibit A

This pic was taken a month ago. That would be me and Nene, at the bar, trying to take a pic celebrating our graceful handling of the hilarious 5 types of cereal moment, earlier that evening. Photobombed by alleged Chair Thrower dude. #brilliant

Exhibit B

This pic was taken last night. That would be me and Nene and KizBoxer, trying to take a pic to show off our sexy swagalicious good looks. Oh and hey! Chair Thrower photobombing like a pro.

Chair Thrower had forewarned me that he’d wear a black shirt for the sole purpose of improving his odds of photobombing me.

#geniustakesallforms #soulofanartist #dammit #ilaughedandsworeoutloudalot

Squad goals

For someone who has such a disastrous dating track record and a legendary bad taste in men (if I like a guy, even only to the extent of finding him good eye candy, he ALWAYS turns out to be somewhere along the scale of “clueless asshat” to “full-blown psycho jackass”; I’m like one of those divining rods for finding water, except I uncover assholes disguised as attractive males) I consistently do the opposite when it comes to friendships. Over the years, in all areas of my life, I’ve developed the most standup, awesome, diverse, honorable set of friends, a diverse group with different backgrounds & professions. #humblebrag

Allie is one such amazing friend. I met her around the same time as Dynamo, during my first year back in uni as a full-time student. I was an angry, unpleasant person in those days, too busy battling my shame of having failed out of engineering. Allie was in my elective acco class about detecting and preventing fraud #actuallyinteresting #notboring. She quickly pegged me as someone she wanted to get to know, because we had so many acquaintances in common, and I pegged her as the only student in the class that might pose a threat to my goal of finishing with the best grade. I adopted the mantra “keep your friends close, and your enemies closer”, whereas she thought we were on a path to be friends. We did a project together and I decided that I would keep her as a study buddy. Yes, I really did evaluate people in terms of their usefulness to me back then. #charming

We completed the rest of our undergrad together. I look back on my interactions with Allie during that time with shame. I was frequently annoyed by her mannerisms, how emotional she would be, a talkative clingy drama queen (#ironymuch? I was not particularly self-aware back then!) I mean, she would call me, instead of texting! WHO DOES THAT?!?! I was consistently rude to her, short-tempered, and judgmental. Yet, for some reason, she persisted in viewing our relationship as something approaching a friendship, instead of a nerdy association. This lasted close to TWO YEARS. The girl was persistent!

Then my ex dumped me out of the blue. The life I thought I was working towards with him was no more. I was gutterless, stuck in a degree I hated with few friends, as I had spent the past 2.5 years ignoring humans, focused only on achieving a perfect GPA. I didn’t know who to turn to, I was disoriented by my new reality. Allie watched me struggle, and gave hugs and encouragement. Suddenly her phone calls didn’t seem like an archaic form of communication, but a sweet way to check in on a friend. Suddenly, I was the one crying emotionally while she listened quietly and without judgment, and then shared her bag of jellybeans with me. When I wanted to drop out of school during my alcoholic haze, she reminded me of the inspiring disciplined study buddy she relied on, and prodded me to get back in touch with that side of myself. My ex’s sudden absence – the one person I’d counted on to always be there – made me appreciate the people that were actually there: Allie, Dynamo, and Blond ‘Fro, amongst others. #majorsilverlining

Over 6 years have passed since that watershed moment. During that time, Allie and I studied and passed the UFE together, got hired at the same accounting firm, in the same department, worked stupid hours. We survived office politics, terrible clients, always pushing each other to be the best damn versions of ourselves we could be. We worked out together, discussed diets and boys endlessly. When she announced her intention to move to NZ, I was dismayed. But I was her cheerleader, encouraging her to follow her dreams despite her inevitable huge doubts and fears. She stayed in NZ for 3.5 years, during which we texted almost daily, emailing often, seeing each other during her Xmas holiday visits. She moved back home 2 months ago, and the hole in my heart disappeared.

One month after her move back to Mtl, she rented a chalet up north, and invited her immediate family and her close friends to spend the weekend with her and her fiancé to celebrate their engagement, their first home and her birthday. Seeing Allie surrounded by her family was a revelation. This is a family that radiates love, generosity and integrity. They care, fiercely, about each other, and about every person that they love. Yes, they are all up in each other’s business (they all call each other ALL THE TIME!!!), but that is because each member’s happiness is dependent on every other family member achieving their happiness – so yes, they will meddle/help/irresistibly push each other to better themselves. Just like Allie has always done with me. That weekend, Allie asked me to be her bridesmaid at her wedding. In that moment, I became an honorary part of the family.

I spent all of last Saturday with Allie, her mother, and her childhood BFF (the maid of honor) shopping for Allie’s wedding dress. While it was only the second time I met her mother and BFF, I feel like I’ve known them forever. We talked of everything, personal and trivial (although, really, no one can possibly believe that the degree of bedazzle on a wedding dress is a trivial topic, right?) Vulnerability is something that comes easily to those ladies. If I had to label the feeling of that day, it would be one of wholesome, uncomplicated love. The love we share for Allie, and Allie for us. The joy in knowing Allie was one step closer to cementing her love with her man. When I am with Allie, it seems simple to be wholly oneself, yet connect wholly to others. The further I distance myself from her orbit, the less that seems possible.

Girl’s got it. I am so incredibly grateful that despite myself, she decided to adopt me.

Allie, Vanilla & Dynamo – at the weekend chalet getaway.

P.S. She said yes to the dress and we cried. And celebrated with champagne and jellybeans.

Cerebral vs emotional: an afterword

Recently I was chatting with a professional acquaintance who occasionally reads this blog – that weird level of acquaintance where he doesn’t know me, but he knows a fair bit about me. He commented that I’m very cerebral, and I tend to overthink things. Bullseye! Guilty as charged. However much I may understand that perception, I do not identify myself as a cerebral person at all. I am emotional. #understatementofthedecade

My emotions are, and always have been, overwhelming. As I’ve documented extensively here, from 2010-2014, I cycled through 3 depressive episodes. During those years, I tried denying my emotions, because they were too big, too scary and too painful: I learned to instead rely solely on my logic, an approach that worked well with my career as an accountant. Of course, denying myself the right to feel anything, learning to navigate the world based solely on my brain like a robot, was intolerable and I broke, in the form of recurring depressions. I sought help in August 2014, and thanks to my amazing therapist, and the support of some key friends, by June 2015, I was starting to let myself feel again. As this post reminds me, it was a bumpy, unregulated process: a rush of emotion so strong, it could not be denied, often with embarrassing/hilarious/awkward consequences.

Today, 15 months later, I am still emotional. So emotional. I’ve accepted that regardless of how hard I try ignore or deny my feelings, they will operate within me anyhow. So it is in my interest to let myself feel, because those feelings dictate my truth, and who I am. I want to know who I am, why I am behaving the way I am. I still have a long way to go: there are times where the emotions are so strong, I just shut down, albeit less dramatically than before – I’ll just leave work early, or come in late (it helps that I have an amazing understanding boss). My latest approach is to feel the feeling, live with the discomfort, until I am sure of what I am feeling: anger, hurt, betrayal, frustration, despair, worry, anxiety, even happiness, when they rush in, I cannot identify which is which. Once I am sure of the flavor of my emotion, I let it sit for a time, rolling about in the background of my brain, while the cerebral part of me works backwards from that feeling to identify the possible causes triggering such a strong reaction.  This process takes hours, sometimes even days. It makes for some interesting timing, the appearance of delayed reactions. But this cerebral approach to my emotional self is the best coping mechanism I’ve found: I refuse to impulsively react to these intense feelings, as sometimes my first identification of the emotion in question is wrong – I’ll mistake hurt pride for anger, or feel shame when really I am hurt/betrayed. I don’t want to inflict my reactions upon my acquaintances, coworkers, friends and family unless I am certain they are coherent with the underlying issue. Because inflict, I will #assertive.

Case in point: Beaut. When I wrote the peniscation episode, and the resulting drama, the reaction amongst my friends and family was unanimous: cease all contact. My godmother phrased it best:

I want you to know this morning I read your post: keep one thing in mind, when a dishonest person does something to you, his actions reflect on who he is. He is using people, no excuses. He separates the parts of the person he uses (mind, body, fun, etc). You wanted to trust him and now you will stop. There is no more to say. He is wrong and you will be wrong if you continue giving him importance. Important is your desire to trust and build a relationship with someone worthy of your trust. Today is a new moment, it starts by removing importance to this person and continuing your path of kindness, productivity, etc. Please do and keep away from every path he walks. Love you.

Strong words, that I recognized as true. But there was a nagging part of me that felt that it was not time to walk away. Did I trust him? No, never. Did I love him? Kind of – he reminded me of a puppy that had been badly abused, and therefore tried to bite the hand of any human that wanted to pet it. It wasn’t fully his fault, I’ll always maintain that underneath all his baggage he is a sweet kind man, but in no way did that absolve him of the responsibility of learning to be less broken, so as to avoid hurting the people who cared for him. Mostly, I felt that it would be a failure in my ability to be a friend if I walked away when the going got tough – and boy was his life one ginormous shitstorm. So, cautiously, I stayed in his orbit, willing to be friendly, and maybe even friends. My cousins and friends shook their heads in despair. I tried to tell them: I acknowledged the merit of their advice, but until such a moment where I was ready to freeze Beaut out of my life, it would be a mistake to force it. I would know when I was ready, and when that moment came, I wouldn’t regret it.

That moment came over the weekend. Something so trivial, it makes me smile. He took 8 hours to answer a text about a non-bloggable crisis of which he is aware that has been preoccupying me for the past 2 weeks. During those 8 hours, 2 friends texted me to check in on me, because that is what friends do. During those 8 hours, Beaut was active on Facebook and was tagged in a post by Main Girl, as having cooked her a wonderful meal, bought her flowers, and being a great supportive friend. I felt an absence of emotion so deafening, that I knew: the last of the importance I gave to Beaut had evaporated. It appears crazy that the final reaction to a post I wrote 2 months ago happened now; a prime example of just how extreme my delayed reactions can be. But to me, there is nothing unusual. 95% of my emotions were sorted through at the time of the peniscation/Queen B posts. The remaining 5% took their sweetass time, but that is just how I roll. A convoluted, drawn-out way to close out a chapter in my life with minimal scar tissue, and no regrets.

Emotional & cerebral. But so much happier now that I allow myself to be both of those things.

*writes a 3 body paragraph essay* *attaches 32 screenshots* #SoundOn @Thehornynun

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I can’t stop laughing. That tag line tho! #definitelynotmenoway #exceptmaybesometimes

5 types of cereal

I love my boxing crew. And yes, they are still my crew even if I no longer box; I do the weightlifting and conditioning class 2x a week with Coach (re: Dr. Booté and Dr. Booté strikes again) and realistically, it is only a matter of time until I put the gloves back on. My home away from home. My happy place.  Anyhow, my boxing crew likes alcohol. And to party. And to be loud. And to occasionally throw chairs and start fights with scary bikers (I can’t elaborate, I wasn’t there. It remains something of a myth at the gym). Basically, I’ve never been to a party with my boxing peeps that didn’t involve piss-in-your-pants laughter and good times. Last Saturday was one such party.

At the party was a former boxer, who I will call Cereal due to his habit that night of walking up to people and randomly asking them to name 5 types of cereal in 10 seconds – go! (Surprisingly entertaining, as far as gambits go.) Cereal is as Québecois as they come. Think a rougher version of Patrick Huard, from my favorite movie, Bon Cop Bad Cop:

Cereal and I have bumped into each other at the gym for close to 5 years, he even acted as my coach in my corner for one fight, but this was the first time we actually partied together. Cereal is renown for becoming slightly colorful when he drinks, making him a perfect fit with my crew because #chairthrowing y’all. I was prepared to be entertained.

It was after midnight, when well-“hydrated” Cereal explained to the room at large (in loud, beautifully vulgar and vivid Québecois that I will never be able to adequately replicate),

For the longest time, I really didn’t like eating pussy. Wait, no, that’s not true. I was young, tsé, and I thought sex was just about cumming, I didn’t particularly care about the girl, but then I got wiser, and I learned that girls LIKE having their pussy eaten! Yeah, they really like that shit! No, its true! So, I started training for it. No, really. I trained for it. I’m ok with being honest, I’ve got nothing to hide: I wasn’t very good at it. I had to practice and practice. Like boxing! Repetition makes perfect. And I practiced a lot! I’m fucking good at eating pussy, like you wouldn’t believe. And now I tell all the young guys at the gym: eat pussy.

Cereal decided it was only right that he show one of the younger guys in the room some of his tongue techniques, despite Young Dude protesting that really, no, he was quite good with his own skill set. Cereal would not be deterred from his altruistic purpose. He approached Young Dude with intent, and right as he was about to brandish his tongue in Young Dude’s face with impressive bravado, Young Dude yelled at him, “5 types of cereal – go!” Cereal started naming all the cereals he could think of. Young Dude’s face of relief, tho. LOL.

[Now we get to the part of the story that I am less comfortable with my father reading. Hi Pa! Stop reading! Aunts and Uncles, y’all can stop too!]

Cereal approached me, as I was talking to Nene. Man on the prowl. “Vanilla, can I ask you a question?” Of course. “It’s a bit of a confidential question.” That’s cool. Me and Nene, we tight. Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of Nene. “Yeah, that’s true. Nene is a gentleman, esti! Ok, so here goes. Vanilla, do you like getting your ass eaten? Yeah? You do? On a scale of 1 to 10, Vanilla, how much do you like it? 7.5?! Wow, you like it a LOT.” Nene’s face of comical dismay, as he turned to stare at me, his impression of Vanilla completely shattered, is LOL#2 of the party. [Disclaimer: I did say this part shouldn’t be read by my father. Ok. So Pa, if you are feeling nauseous right now reading this, it’s NOT MY FAULT.]

And now for the coup-de-grâce. “Ok, Vanilla. Here’s my offer. Any time you feel like it, between now and the end of the night, you just ask me, and I will eat your ass so good, you won’t just like it 7.5, no. You’ll like it at least 8. Maybe even 8.5. Oh yeah! You’ll like it THAT much. 8.5! That’s a pretty good number. So any time you like, just let me know. That’s what I am prepared to do for you. And you don’t need to worry, I’ve been single for 3 years, and I’ve been tested for all the STDs, I’m squeaky clean, calisse. So yeah. Let me know if you want me to eat your ass. Offer expires at the end of the night. (sotto voice:) Actually, it expires in 2-3 months, because I am generous like that. Yeah. That will be our little secret. (normal voice:) So, you just think on that, Vanilla.  It’s not every day you get that kind of offer. Think on that real good. I don’t want you making any snap decisions.” Turning to Nene, who listened to this entire exchange with a look of rapt incomprehension, Cereal fist-pumped him, “So tell me, Nene, have you ever heard an approach so sincere, so honest, and so nasty?” Cue LOL #3. Cereal stayed true to his word, and gave me time to think about it. He walked tipsily away, leaving me and Nene in helpless giggles.

I did say piss-in-your-pants laughter, yeah?

P.S. No ass was eaten that night. [Ok Pa! You can start reading again! It’s safe now!]

P.P.S. I am not being a Mean Girl by writing this post. By Monday night, this story had spread all over the gym. I am not sure who got teased more, myself or Cereal. But the general consensus is that, no, no one has ever heard an “approche aussi sincère, honnête et cochonne.”