Sunday, Jul. 13, 2003
warm up warm up warm up warm up even on a saturday morning it seems mildly amazing to me that fingers, dancing on the trail of a thought process, would need a warm up the same as legs would if I were to run up to the gym. Yeah, uh, not today, y'all. Although I'm thinking a visit to the gym would be as good for my spirit as for my (f*cking) gut. I hate this gut. To the point that I'm ashamed of myself for still having it. (And I hate even more to draw attention to such profound dissatisfaction with myself. Hence the attempt to hide it with an asteric.)

And not that this is an excuse for my reluctance to put my own ass back on one of those eliptical treadmills, but I find that when I focus on something with the intent of seeing it all the way through to the end, I lose track of having fun. I get so damn serious. And then I get pissed off and abandon my good intentions and my life continues empty. Yup, the classic example of manic-depressive rationalization. It's just too bad that a hearty "Shut the fuck up and do it!" is no way to motivate someone. I should study the ancient art of   b A l A n C e   so that I might accept without cynicism that a few hours of concentrated physical exertion without fluffy entertainment will in turn open my mind to the discovery of meaningful amusement with the world around me.

...Breathe... Lookit. My shoulders are peeling. And I haven't had a toke in months.

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