What? And you're welcome.

Today is a day for blobbing. It's cold. And raining. I have an attack of the PMS Monster. I've attempted the "Kickboxing your way to Cardio Fitness" DVD my mother so thoughtfully gave me for my birthday yesterday, and I've even dragged my lazy ass out into the cold to walk the dogs. And now, after the strenuous exertion of consuming 3 Easter eggs when I got home, I want to melt onto the couch with my new chick flicks, and vegetate.

Yet suddenly the Chef has developed a taste for raging queens running around in mud, slapping each other on their tight little white shorts, and generally making an exhibition of themselves.

Football. Never, not once in our two years together, has he ever had the desire to watch AFL and swear loudly, pretending he intricately knows the rules, and shouting their surnames in shortened form in the pretence of having known them intimately for years.

That man is one step closer to coming out, I swear.


See? Even when I googled 'AFL is gay' this appeared.

*breaks into a cold sweat*
Thank me later ladies.