500 Apples

I was going to reveal my new hobby this afternoon. That is, until I fell on my ass. Now I just feel like I need to write about my sore ass in hopes that the pain will ease.

It seems my new hobby is hurting myself. Three weeks ago, I knocked myself silly going up some steps. Today, I stood up to hang the cutting mat on its nail here in the office and, without looking or feeling behind me, I sat back down, but when my ass was parallel with the floor (where it normally meets fake leather and padding) it kept going all the way down to the concrete floor. Before today I would have guessed that my ass could withstand such an incident without much distress, but I’m feeling it in every step.

I may just have to make Jennifer look for visible signs of ass-damage, like bruising. An ass-massage is out of the question because I know that would hurt; just sitting here, I can feel ass-discomfort, so any kind of kneading-action would just be torture–ass torture.

This is a new personal record; I have used the word “ass” 10 times.

Writing about my sore ass (11 times) has NOT helped ease the pain. As soon as I hit publish on this ass-tastic (12 times) piece of writing, I’m off to find some ass-pillows (13 times) because I have to sit in this demonic chair (I’m convinced that it moved on its own as I was about to sit) to whip out 14 shirts before I can take an ice-cold ass-bath (to prevent swelling, of course…14).

ass. (15)

ass. (16)