Whoa Is Me

I can’t sit still. My body is an electrified jumble of crickets on a hot tin roof, leaping and crackling under the summer sun, waiting to be eaten by some weird recluse who lives in the woods, shuns technology and eats roasted crickets. It is because of this disorder (also known as ADHD by “medical” “professionals”) that I tend to overexert myself. And like a demolition derby car spun round and round in a mud pit, I eventually break down.

My body this past month has taken a beating. As evidence I point you to exhibit A, my body mass. Before a series of unfortunate injuries and illnesses befell me, I was an ox. Clothes fit awkwardly, like a speedo on the Incredible Hulk. I couldn’t squeeze into a size small without looking like a cankle shoved into a nylon stocking. Buttons would magically unbotton when I wore a classy shirt (read: shirt with buttons). Now everything fits nice, like a JCPenny catalogue model. My pecs and my arms, which once were as swollen as an Ethiopian baby’s belly, have deflated to a fairly normal, non-head turning proportion. I was a sound 175 lbs. I’m barely pushing 165 now. Part of this is fat, of course. I’m eating healthier, so the weight is just running off of me like so much rain water from the concave roof of a neo-hippie commune community hut. But some of this is muscle, precious muscle that I have spent much time building up only to see it ripped away from me like a doll from a gay toddler with conservative parents.

First, I had my shoulder injury. I’ve written about it before, so I’ll spare the details. But it has disabled me from pushing my pecs to the limit and broadening my back. My arms have had to suffer as have my shoulders. Yeah, my abs have never looked better, but so what. What good is a six-pack on a stick figure. I’ve never looked at a stick figure and said, “I’d sure like to have sex with that stick figure.”

Second, I’m still battling this flu thing. The fever and aches are gone, but a sore throat persists. I’m on meds now, not good meds. Just helpful meds. They don’t make me feel loopy or allow me to see into the future. They just heal me. B to the Oring. But that disabled me from working out at all for the past week.

Although I’m not a lumpy, sad mass of flesh, I kind of feel like one. And so I reflect on what I could be doing differently. And I realize the best course of action is probably to take it a little slow. I’ve been go, go, go since God knows when. My life doesn’t really wait for anyone, including myself. Which sucks because if I miss my own life, it’s not like I can catch another one in 20 minutes. Moral: Life is not the Clark bus. But maybe by slowing down and giving myself a rest, I’ll come to some new ephiphanies about life and myself. Maybe I’ll see the light and acheive Nirvana. Maybe I’ll start a cult, gain some followers and then get blown to bits by the FBI. I’m terrible with free time because my mind always goes to thoughts of cults. But anywho, maybe it’s just good to take a break and stop to smell the infectious diseases that are coursing throughout my veins.


One response to “Whoa Is Me

  1. Pingback: Whoa Is Me « sixpackabs4u.com

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