My Guy and I have been watching a lot of the Olympics. Or, as my brother used to call them, the Bolympics. The games of the gajillionth Bolympiad, if you will.
I was surprised to find that some of the competitors in women's gymnastics are my height, or even an inch taller. I'm 5'3" on a really good day ... and I even saw a gymnast who is 5'4"!
I mentioned this to My Guy, who was all, "What are you talking about?"
"How tall do you think I am?"
And then I had a heart attack from laughing. And then I got all somber. "You don't know me at all!"
So, I was feeling really alone, and, well, vulnerable. And then? Then I found out ... Bret Michaels is single.
Yes. Our favorite bandannaed rocker split from his fiancee / babymama. They are asking for privacy right now during this difficult time.
Now, I'm married. And I'm gonna stay married, even though this is obviously a very challenging time for me and My Guy, what with the height discrepancies and the reappearance of my old flame, Bret. We're gonna work through it, for the sake of the dogs.
But beyond that, does this mean we can look forward to yet another season of tramptastic fun on Rock of Love? Because My Guy and I have been known to bond over trashy teevee. And another Bret Michaels-based show could help us rebuild our marriage.
Now, I have a well-documented obsession with the Rock of Love skankfest. I'm sure I've personally contributed to the downfall of western civilization with my many thought-provoking posts on Bret's misguided quest for sex, err, I mean love. But Rock of Love?
If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right.
Buzzfeed does an excellent job of arguing for yet another season of Rock of Love. As I mentioned in my visionary proposal for Slut Rehab, we, as a culture, need to provide outlets for our hoochier members. And Rock of Love is it.
vh1? I hope you're reading. And since I was looking for volunteer opportunities, maybe I could do community service by helping the ladies cover their hoo-has and stuff.
Also? I'm sort of embarrassed by the number of posts I've written about Bret Michaels and his entire ecosystem of cheap Christmas trash. I'm hoping this means I'm an anthropologist and not, you know, a slut groupie.