Ask me about my Weiner

Greg and Shannon came to my kickball game this week. I’m not sure if it was all the walking I did in heels in Atlanta or what my affliction is, but I pulled my hamstring muscles or something before the game. I was in agony, but determined not to be a pussy, so I nutted up when it was time for me to kick. The kick went well; any normal human had ample time to reach the base.

The first baseman was stretching for the ball with one hand, but the ball was straight chilling on the ground 3 inches out of her reach. My team was screaming, “RUNNNNNN!” and I was screaming, “I CAN’T! MY HAMMIES!” I mall-walked as fast as my legs would allow, but the wind blew the ball into the first baseman’s clutches, and I was out.

It would have been embarrassing had it not been so damn funny. Even though I sat the rest of the game out, Greg heckled the hell out our opponents even though they lost by a landslide.

After the game, people congregated in the parking lot where two young men were selling hot dogs. We befriended the hotdog salesmen. One of them picked me up in a hug when parted ways, landing a swift kiss I never saw coming. He has kept me rolling in laughs today, and I feel like I have found the friendship I lost with Adam.

He plays the bit. We rattled off all the fun ways his hotdog business could expand, all the fun games, activities, and recipes. Come to think of it, I used to always tease Avery about loving hotdogs. He would defensively insist that he DID NOT LOVE HOT DOGS.

Well, I do. They’re a mysterious, slightly unnerving, penis-shaped sandwich. I would run to subscribe to an account that posted candid photos of people eating hotdogs (if I could run).

Best of all, hotdogs remind me of you. You and I, we always loved a LuckyDog after midnight.

I miss you terribly. First Easter without you sucks :-(