missionary accompliced

I used to count steps in counts of eight, like you do when you’re dancing. I’ve noticed lately that I don’t do that anymore; I hit eight and just keep right on going. I’m trying to decide if this is because my OCD is getting better or it’s because my lazy butt hasn’t seen a dance studio in 20 years. (It’s the second one).
Unless I’ve had a few beers, my pasta salad tastes like the contents of a Kansas City Greek restaurant drain trap.
Miller Lite. It’s like they knew the Text Age was coming and shortened their name accordingly. Bless their delightful, 96-calorie hearts.