In case I forgot, I'm not 15 anymore

I'm such a jackass.

Last night, I was staring intently at my underwear-clad body in the full-length mirror (well, half of a full-length mirror. The ex broke it in half and never replaced it, even though he swore he would), trying to figure out if all the healthy eating and working out is having any effect whatsoever on my epic thighs. Suddenly, I see a GIANT bruise below my ass. I poke it. It's a little sore. I do the same thing with the giant bruise on my left thigh, left elbow and right calf. I go through my activities over the past few days and have no recollection of what (or who) could have beaten me so savagely. Panicked, I come to the conclusion that I must have a rare, fatal blood disease. I get ready to call Mom, a nurse, for a diagnosis, and then it hits me.

After Julie begged and pleaded with me to do tequila shots on Sunday night, she also somehow convinced me it would be a good idea to roll down a grassy hill that turned out to be more rocky than grassy.

It would appear that, at the age of 29, I still haven't figured out how to resist peer pressure.