Just the knowledge that Kelly Brook is somewhere in my neighborhood right now in stretch pants has kept me awake for 96 straight hours. I might have nodded off for an hour or two during the Winter Olympic Games, but who hasn't? Still, my Spidey-senses are firing on all cylinders, the knowing tingle that the bodacious and curvaceous Kelly Brook is within binocular distance has me on edge.
It probably hasn't eased my suffering that Kelly Brook spent the weekend out and about the local environs, first flashing her camel toe in yoga pants as she hiked nearby, and then moving on to the gym where she kickboxed another buxom lady, I suppose mostly just to test the limits of my passion endurance.
The entire ongoing experience is making my pulse rate fire into the triple digits round the clock. I'm told it's not super healthy, but if I survive two more days, I should own a new Guinness World Record. Maybe then Kelly will realize how special I am, and finally accept my need to be smothered by her sweaty bosom. Without hope, we are nothing. Enjoy.