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.  

... but square tires don't roll...

How long has it been since I’ve had time to actually post something on here? Jesus, I hate finals. Final anything just sounds bad- I think it must just be one of those words that’ll never make people think happy thoughts. Like “underage” or “fecal.” Or “Yankee.” I also have a bunch of horrible connotations related to anything involving the Deep South, but I blame that on having to sit through a semester’s worth of graphic racial violence and incest-y Southern communities where siblings have kids who then interbreed and make a bunch of dumpy midget-children who can’t even walk or open their eyes properly. For reals. In movie format. THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU CAN’T UNSEE, PROFESSOR McRACIAL-TORTURE-PORN.

...

That got a bit ranty there. Sorry.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Finals. They suck. Did I mention I have no time? I’ve got maybe a day and a half to learn a whole bunch of shit I should already know but hasn’t stuck because it’s boring  for some reason, and all I want to do is curl up and SLEEP and I fucking can’t until about Wednesday, because that’s probably when I’ll be home after all the packing up and cleaning that I’ve left till the last second, because apparently THAT’S JUST HOW I ROLL. LIKE A SQUARE FUCKING TIRE, THAT’S HOW I ROLL.

*ahem*

I’m not sure whether I need more caffeine or less.

Google ruined this post

Oh god, paaaaaaain.

Leg status= cramped and stiff, somewhat ruined in all joint-related areas. Whys the treadmill hates me? Whys? All I did was abuse it for roughly 28 km this week. I need to get used to this running shit. And stretch. And figure out what the hell kind of grudge my shoes have got against my feet. And stretch more. A lot more.. good lord. Why the fuck don't I stock Tylenol anywhere in this apartment?

Also, I think I'm developing an intense fear of Google. Every time I try to find a picture of something, it shows me a whole bunch of awful-looking shit that vaguely resembles people who've either fallen into a vat of acid or stepped on a land mine. Because that's really what I want to see at four in the morning. For serious. Any kind of body part, when googled, will give you about thirty pictures of said body part being mutilated in ways that hadn't even occured to me as being possible. That, or porn.

worst break-in ever

Y’know what I’m not a fan of?

*I'M A FIRE DRILL AND I'M GOING TO RING FOREVER*

Loud, piercing noises going off at thirty second intervals for no goddamn reason other than to make sure it’s loud enough to really blow out everyone’s eardrums.  For an hour and a half. I lost my liking for fire drills when it stopped being a legitimate excuse to miss a test, which was somewhere in middle school when things like that were a big deal. Now it’s just a reason to be herded out into the freezing outdoors at 4 in the morning when you’d bite the head off a small kitten to be back in your cozy nest of a bed. Not that I’ve had that thought...

And because I’m extra bitter and cranky now, I’m also just gonna throw it out there that if you think about it, fire drills could be a perfect excuse to work out whatever pyromaniac-urges you’ve been suppressing. I mean, the alarm’s already going off, right? Why not actually light something on fire? Everyone’s already worked up about it. It’s just convenient. Probably a bit of a kindness, too, since everyone will feel that their initial panic and rage over such a horrible shrieking sound was justified by things actually being on fire somewhere. It’s really just being considerate. And you thought I wasn’t a good person.

Of course, on no account should you mention any of this to the fire-maintenance people when they actually break into your apartment to check that your alarms are also capable of making shrieking noises. They really don’t have any sense of humour at all. They’re also very grumpy for people who are breaking into someone else’s apartment to stomp around in work boots for a bit. Honestly. If I was going to come in and wander around while someone was trying to do their homework, I’d at least be a bit more cheerful, or at least apologetic. “Sorry about completely destroying your sense of security. Nice bedsheets, by the way.” Something like that.

I am an oyster

It is way-too-fucking-late o’clock, and I am still writing *shit* for a class that I hate. It’s the same paper I’ve been writing for ages, and it’s going to be late anyway because apparently no one gives half an ass about Zulu beer pots. Except for some woman named Juliet Armstrong, who has an amazing talent for hiding every single piece of actual research she’s ever done (but does a great job of bragging about it on her spiffy little website). I only found a few actual sources a day or so ago, so I get maybe half a day to research, write, and hand in a research paper. I am not a homework ninja, okay? I am not even a homework karate kid. I’m a homework guy-who-gets-into-slapping-fights-with-other-guys. I am the homework equivalent of an oyster. IT TAKES ME A LONG TIME TO ACCOMPLISH SOMETHING, OKAY?!