Kill the Comps.

There’s this girl I see every now and then at the gym on the nights our routines cross paths.

She’s tall with perfect looking legs. Tan like she just stepped off the beach. Blonde like Barbie. And looks obnoxiously  pretty with very little makeup on.

I call her “hot  girl”. Very clever of me.

When she walks by, she turns every head she passes….including mine. (Don’t worry, this story isn’t going anywhere too weird).

On top of it all, she actually kicks butt in the gym with her tough work outs, so I can’t even hate on her for being a pansy.

Big Fisch laughs at me for observing hot girl, like a creeper. And it’s true. I do.

I am not afraid to admit my creeper status.

How can you not notice someone who seems so…perfect?

The more pristine her life appears, the larger my imperfections and (sweat marks) feel, and before I know it, my mind takes me to this crazy place where I assume everything in her life is just dandy and she skips around in a land of sugar plums and chocolate rivers. Chocolate rivers she’s allowed to swim in and drink from. And this river is actually made with whole milk, but some how this bitty doesn’t ever get fat.…

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