I am a walking C+C Music Factory song.
Day two of running my pale, asymmetrical mass of stuff into the ground compete. Feels good to actually be back to doing something to keep myself from dying when I’m, say, 52. But now I have to do boring shit, like draft a food budget and—worse!—stick to it. That way I don’t overeat like an asshole and I actually save money to give to people I’ve never met, in exchange for services I never use. I’m looking at you, Progressive.
Trivia team name tonight: The Dil-Do’s and Dil-Don’ts of Sex Toy Maintenance. You do better.
The Weight Is Not a Gift
Today, I weighed in at a grotesque 215.5 pounds. Also, my notes from workout sessions with Eric before he left for Basic show that approximately 99 days have elapsed since I set foot inside Planet Fitness. Fuck, I am lazy.
So I’m going to finish Couch-to-5K, which I started last summer but failed to complete because running outside in the beating-hot sunlight is for people who are conditioned runners. I am not a conditioned runner. I’m not even an unconditioned runner. I’m a wobbly mass of protoplasm on tree trunk thighs and spindly calves that, as it turns out, sweats way too fucking much for a guy who is just running on a treadmill. If I sweat paint, I could be the next Jackson Pollack.
But I will be a conditioned runner, with the help of a contained, air conditioned environment, the support of my loyal friends and followers, and writing about what I’m actually doing. If I’m going to commit to real, actual change, I have to harness the resources I have at my disposal to get the job done. Especially the air conditioning.
I’ll probably rant about stuff here, and talk about dorky shit like Magic. Food is a likely topic of discussion, as well. Feel free to read and/or respond to stuff.