The never-ending summer.

Hello there. I'm writing you from the fiery pits of Hell known as the Midwest, where it's been approximately 4,000 degrees for approximately 9,000 days in a row with approximately seven drops of rain. Everything is dead. No one walks on the grass barefoot because have you ever walked barefoot across broken glass? SAME FEELING. Or so I'd imagine, as I've never actually walked across broken glass whilst barefooted. Use your imaginations, you guys. Droughts are suffocating. Literally. No good air to breathe, no moisture to sustain life. We've recently gotten a few good, rare thunderstorms, which has been a nice reprieve, but with them came crushing humidity, so basically life is a party right now. A party where we're all cranky as shit and no one goes outside and we all lay lifeless in front of our air-conditioners, if we're lucky enough to have them. Being a runner right now is awesome, seeing as though every day we wake up to HEAT WARNING! CAUTION! STAY INDOORS!

All of the heat and misery aside, we're nearing the end of July (ALREADY). Another round of Dances With Dirt has come and gone, wherein I ran the 50K with my pals Marty and Tracey. It was hard and hot and sweaty (and get your minds out of the gutter), but in the end, MORE than worth it. Love that race, love those people and love that whole weekend. 

Speaking of that weekend, I spent it with my boyfriend. BOYFRIEND. Hear that? Because it's official now. Facebook says so. You know what's still a funny word, though? Boyfriend. It feels so... 19-years-old. Like, teenager. He's my booooooyfriend. That's how it feels. That's how people say it, too, with that antagonizing undertone. I'm of the age where people are to have husbands, or something. But nope, this is my boooooyfriend. It's cool, I'll take it.

First things first, his name is Jeff. Let's just get that out of the way. I won't call him The Boyfriend, I won't call him The Man, I won't call him J, or any other sort of cheesy, anonymous pseudonym (although, personally, I've come to call him "Duck"). He has a name. I shall use it. I'm not gonna, like, give you his social security number, or anything, so don't worry, I'm sure it's safe for me to call him Jeff on the internet.

We've spent the last two weekends out of town, hiking and running and relaxing and beaching and enjoying each other's company, which is pretty fantastic. Yesterday, after replacing the starter in my car, he brought flowers to me at work. FLOWERS. I mean, come on. Also, Chicken thoroughly enjoys his company, so what other endorsement does he need?

Exactly.

So I'm just fine, hot weather and all. I even recently took up stocking my refrigerator with actual food and forcing myself to cook meals, rather than zip down the road to the area Subway/Taco Bell/pizza joint/Culver's, which has proven to save an enormous amount of money AND my health, apparently. Who knew veggies and home-cooked meals were so delightful?

WHO KEEPS THESE SECRETS FROM ME?

Knock-it-off.