Diary 2005: The Gym

1 May

I hate the gym. That fucking stairmaster, the endless agony– I’ll have moments when I’m on there, swerving all herky-jerky like a marionette– I space out, follow a thought or daydream along a whole complex sequence for what seems like several minutes, and then I look down and not one second has passed. I can grasp the infinitude of hell this way. The weights– rusty medieval torture devices, the bench press crushing the breath out of my chest, grinding me down into the sweaty staphylococcal pleather… and I never gain one ounce of strength. I’ve been benching 205 on a good day for over a year.

I hate the gym– the bald guy on the bike right next to my stairmaster who smells, overpoweringly, like a nasty twat…. the horrible desiccated little woman with a sparrow face and fake tits who vies with me for one of the last stairmasters; puts her water bottle and her paper towel on it and then hovers around stretching and lifting weights for like 20 minutes. And when anyone gets near the machine she darts over and says “EXCUSE ME- I have that machine!” Who when she finally gets on there does like jazzercize to her headphones, totally rocking out, bobbing her head like a cobra and swinging her arms as far out as possible into your periphery to get deep into your personal space, and I just want to grab that arm and snap the little chicken bone, pick up a 35-lb plate and just smash her face again and again and again. I think a lot about killing people in the gym.

I’m fucking sick of it. I’m sick of thinking about my body but at the same time I’m so fucking close to getting there, to getting perfect and having no fat. But even now, after losing almost thirty pounds from an already pretty athletic frame, I’m still not ripped. In excellent lighting when I’m fully flexing down I look cut but when I’m just standing there– no dice.

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