Bird, confession and a lady named Matt.

There's a bird in the locker room.

No, not that kind of hairy bird that can't fly and sticks to two hanging balls. You people are too dirty minded. Two lines into a post and you're already thinking about dicks. I'm talking about the real bird, with feathers and wings and everything. Most importantly, it can fly. Not just because he believes he can fly. Unlike R. Kelly, who totally can't fly 'cause all those sex with 16 year olds (was it 16 or 14?) have totally killed his flying mojo, this bird can actually fly. Albeit in a locker room.

Did I mention that my gym has a super secretive underground type locker room? You have to walk through this 2 miles long tunnel, go through a waterfall, hike up a mountain and swim through lava (lavas?) to get there. Not to mention 300 palm scanners (like the one I have at my bathroom) along the way. My point is, I forgot where I'm going with this.

So, anyway, there's no way a bird can "accidentally" fly into the locker room all by itself. I'm willing to bet some crazy bastard hid a flying bird right next to his non-flying bird in his (hopefully) non-feathered underwear, and released it in the locker room.

Long story short, while I was changing out of my hot and sexy speedo, hence revealing my hot and sexy ass*, I saw a SPCA looking guy with a huge butterfly net walking around, trying to capture the bird. I left before finding out if he got the bird, or if the bird got him.

Next, we have a confession. Actually, I have a confession. You're welcome to share yours. Tell us how much you like feet, spandex and having alligator clips on your nipples. My confession: I think I smoke too much. Not cigarattes, but that gifts of heaven that makes you fly as high as a kite. I think it's getting bad. This morning I woke up, still high. Can you freaking believe it? I blame this all on my roommate. It's ALL HIS FAULT. All him. Not me. I'm just an little innocence young boy. Don't look at me like that. I feel naked and exposed.

Next, I went to the GLBT center today. They needed volunteers. So I signed up. Everything went smoothly, except one thing. I was introduced to a lady, named Matt. Is Matt short for a girl's name that I'm now aware of? Like Mattherine, Matteline, Mattmily or WhatcaMATTcallit. Something like that. Is there such names? Now that I think of it, that other (real) guy working there was referring to this (fake) Matt guy as "he", and this (fake) "he" has the roughest hand I've ever touched. I think (s)he uses a mixture of sand and sand papers to moisturize her hand. I mean his hand. Goddamn it! Someone please tell me if he is a man. I mean if she is a man. I mean is (s)he is a... Ahh, fuck it.

I'm sorry if I haven't been that funny lately, not that I've ever been funny or anything like that. I guess I was PMS-ing or something. I know I suck fat ass big time, what with being a member of The Shitty Blog Club and all. Hopefully you don't have to go through that again. I know, it's painful.


* I'm not too self absorbed, am I?