Enough with the Marley and Me crap, I'll see you on the wii court

I have not seen "Marley and Me" and I'm not planning on seeing it anytime soon because if you haven't figure it out yet, I am far too emotionally unstable for any movie that ends with a dog dying. I cried for three weeks at the end of "Old Yeller" and that was before I even ever had a dog. Three weeks. When my own dog died I lost 15 pounds, stopped sleeping, and went on a month-long drinking binge and you know what happens when you drink on an empty stomach. I'm also pretty sure that I'm suffering from some sort of post dramatic stress disorder because I get flashbacks and slight panic attacks every time I see a truck driving too quickly down the street. Not even kidding. I should WebMD that.

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In unrelated news, my arm is killing me. I got B a wii for Christmas and have since made it my mission to beat him in wii tennis and apparently I've been doing it all wrong because you're just supposed to flick your wrist and not swing your arm as if you were swinging an actual tennis racket and I might have given myself tennis elbow. WebMD?

You should also know that B is a tennis pro, so since I have no chance of ever beating him on the actual tennis court, beating him on the wii court is becoming an obsession. In all the matches we've played in the past week, I've won one game. And lost the ability to raise my right arm. But if nothing else, wii tennis has finally taught me how to keep score in tennis because before now I never had the attention span to properly pay attention to all that love, game, set, match, duece, whatever, blah blah blah stuff, you know?

P.S. B's not the type of tennis pro that gets paid to play professional tennis, he's the type of tennis pro that gets paid to have affairs with rich women and sometimes men in the movies. And teach people how to play tennis. But he is a pretty mean tennis player, if I do say so myself. Which, actually, might not say that much.

P.P.S. You would think that being engaged to a tennis pro would mean all these sweet free lessons for me, but it doesn't. That may or may not be because the last time he did try to teach me, the lesson may or may not have ended with a thrown racket and lots of profanity.

P.P.P.S. B is absolutely not the type of tennis pro that would have an affair with the rich housewife and that may or may not have something to do with these two words: penis fire. I am, however, negotiable about his possible affairs with other men, depending on my role in the situation.

P.P.P.P.S. Just kidding, B's mom.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Totally not kidding, B. Tweet