Hey, that table was *comfy*

This stump has more energy than I do

Man, I am *not* feeling well at all. I can’t even remember what I did today. I have a vague feeling it had something to do with books, and that at some point I felt pissed because the Asian grocery store was out of bean sprouts (because life ends when that happens), but other than that- zilch. I tried to go for a run a few hours ago, and made it about half a useless hour before every muscle I have just kind of decided to throw in their collective towels. I probably shouldn’t feel too crap about that, considering yesterday I put in a heroic 15 km, but I kind of hate it when workouts totally fail like that. I didn’t even have enough energy to do yoga- it was that ridiculous. I took a break, then went and read a book in the other room for a bit... when I started falling asleep on the table, I figured that was it. So I guess this is my “off day.”

Frigging stupid. That is all I have to say about this.

IF I WANT TO DRINK POISON, I WILL FIND A GODDAMN WAY. Because I'm resourceful like that.

VENDING MACHINES ARE SPITEFUL, CRACK-DEALING MONEY-GRUBBERS, AND I HOPE THERE'S A SPECIAL HELL FOR THEM TO BURN IN.

I try to be healthy. I really do. I mow fruits and vegetables like a starving rabbit, I exercise regularly, I avoid overly processed foods and I drink maybe once a month, if that. I don't have an awful lot of bad habits, although I've cultivated a few to perfection. So with all that trying-to-be-healthy bullshit, I feel like when I need to do something minor and awful to my health, I'M FUCKING ENTITLED.

It's not like I'm talking about crystal meth. I'm pretty sure that's not a "once in a while it's okay" kind of thing. But seriously- once every once in a special while, when I'm about two seconds and three eye twitches away from having to be carted off by people in white coats, I feel like there are worse things than having a can of diet coke. I realize that probably makes me an awful kind of hypocrite, considering all the "no preservative-chemical-evil" crap I usually live by, but sometimes I really. don't. give. a. shit. At all. And I'm okay with that.

SO WHEN I WANT TO DRINK CHEMICALS OUT OF A CAN, IT IS NOTHING LESS THAN PROOF THERE IS NO GOD TO GIVE ME A VENDING MACHINE THAT WILL EAT THE ONLY QUARTERS I HAVE AT TWO IN THE FUCKING MORNING. And then beep mockingly at me. Until I leave. SAD AND POISON-FREE.

No god.

Which is why I ended up driving to the 24-hour pharmacy 20 minutes away like a crack-addled Pepsi-junkie and buying the shit out of some diet Dr. Pepper. Showed that quarter-stealing bitch. I got *two* bottles.

Now that my corner of the world is at peace, I can write the last of my essay.

... what?!

I might be spiteful, but you are a douche-faced monkey without a treadmill. EAT IT.

I found the best motivation for staying on a treadmill- impatient douchebags circling the fucking thing just WAITING for you to hop off so they can steal it. Fucking ARGH.

Seriously, is there NOTHING else in the entire fucking ROOM that you can do? You just HAVE to stand RIGHT FUCKING THERE and lift your puny little weight every three minutes or so to pretend you have a reason for staying? There is no other place for you to sit and watch TV than the gym? THERE’S A STEPPER IN THE BACK, ASS-FACE. A FULL RACK OF WEIGHTS. A *LOT* OF MATSPACE. LEARN HOW TO ADAPT, YOU SLACK-FACED MONKEY.

I see your running shoes. I know you want to use the treadmill. I know it’s the only reason you dragged your Nike-wearing ass down here in the first place. And I normally have horrendous amounts of guilt about taking up equipment, particularly the treadmill, if I even *think* anyone else might want it. In those cases, I will ask them if they want it and probably will limit my own run to about half an hour, tops. Even if I’m having a particularly bad day, as I was yesterday (seriously, the entire day was a waste of effort. My major accomplishment was buying groceries at three different stores and finding a box of popsicles which had actual fruit juice in them (which was entirely devoured two hours later). I will, with a huge amount of effort, dredge up the last wee speck of human decency hiding in my subconscious and ignore the fact that I *really* wanted to use the treadmill, and that I kind of got here first. I know there’s only one, and that it’s inhumanly fucking cold outside. Sometimes exercise brings out, if not the best, at least the somewhat nicer side of me.

Of course, sometimes it brings out unholy fucking evil and makes me want to choke people with exercise bands. Depends on the mood.

WHICH WILL NOT BE HELPED IF YOU STAND AROUND HUFFING AND WATCHING TV AND NOT EVEN PRETENDING YOU ARE DOING ANYTHING BUT WAITING ANGRILY FOR ME TO GIVE UP AND LEAVE. COMMON COURTESY, DOUCHE-HOLE. GO DRINK SOME GATORADE AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.

So instead of doing half an hour, I did an hour and ten minutes out of sheer spite. My lungs started shrivelling up around 40 minutes, and I’d been feeling like a bag of poop before I’d even gotten to the gym (and bags of poop generally aren’t very efficient runners), so I wasn’t planning on anything epic. I’d been giving it a bit of a rest for the last half-week or so as a kind of thank-you to my joints for holding up so well so far (also so they don’t give out completely anytime soon), so I wasn’t really going to run the entire time- I even brought my laptop along to do one of those “Insanity” workouts in the back half of the room. But then I realized how much Douche-Monkey wanted the treadmill, and how rude he was being about it. From then on, it was kind of a game- like, “Let’s see how long you’re going to stalk around getting pissed off before you snap.”

For the record, that game is HEAPS of fun, no matter how tired you are.

After an hour and ten minutes, I felt like I’d given it enough of an effort. I’d run through most of my rage at that point, and was just feeling bad for him. I’d definitely ruined his workout- there was less than half an hour left before the gym closed, at best, and I’d stolen the remote for the TV and left it playing “Jersey Shore” right in front of his face. I figured there wasn’t much else I could do to him. Of course, as soon as I hopped off he jumped straight on. It took him about five minutes of standing around looking annoyed and caveman-dumb jabbing at the buttons before he figured out how to start it.

So my workout went well- I pissed off a monkey, got in an awesome run, and watched the first half-hour of Jersey Shore (which is hella entertaining no matter how much it makes me want to throttle the people on it through the TV screen).  I’m calling that a win.