Why the Olympics are Ruining my Life

There's nothing like a freaky ripped little girl with scrunchie in hair and maniacal greed in her face to get me to change the channel. As there is nothing like watching generically muscular men swim back and forth, back and forth, to put me into a boredom coma.
The Olympics are boring. Always have been always will be. There is something so witless to them that I can't stand. Yes, it is amazing to behold the marvels of what the human body can achieve. And no, I'm not just jealous that I can't do a double back hand spring off a fifty foot vault or whatever those ugly girls can do. I would just rather be spending my free time doing something other than brainlessly watching someone else do cool things with their body. I mean, hello, it's summer. The sun is out. There are parks to go to. Pools to swim at. Ecetera ecetera. And I want to talk with my friends about life. And go out for a bite to eat or a drink. Or watch a good movie.
Unfortunately, it seems as though I am all alone in this opinion. My girlfriends all seem to be under some drug-induced Olympic spell. And the worst of it is, that damn Michael Phelps has them wrapped around his finger. I might be the only straight female on earth who doesn't drool at the sight of his "rockin bod." Eck.
So while my girls are permanently glued to the livingroom couch from 6-11pm every night and sometimes even in the afternoon when all the coverage is happening, I am camped out in my room like a loser, reading. Or walking to the library. Or applying a cleansing mask to my face. Woopady-doo, my life is pretty exciting.
So thank you, Olympics. Thank you so much for sucking the fun out of my week. I hate you, Phelps. I hope you get a silver.