Saturday, March 10, 2007
Last week, James came home from a long jog, stood in the middle of our living room and smelled his left armpit NINE TIMES. I mean honestly, after two or three sniffs, you get it, right? Perhaps this is something residual from childhood, being a boy and grossing each other out or something. This is what prompts a man to drink spoiled milk and then ask someone else to taste it. "Hey, this milk is rotten. Taste it." Um, no thanks, I'll pass. Honestly, I trust your judgement. I know that I love this man. He offered to let me have a sniff of his armpits when he was done with his NINE sniffs. I passed.