Shitness

*Disclaimer: Mom and Dad, if you are reading this, stop.
So today, in an effort to rouse myself from the 'doldrums,' and also because I'm too broke to afford booze, I resorted to getting high on 'life,' specifically endorphins. Ugh, the word alone is enough to make me want to take a goddamned nap. But I figure if I already paid the $90 monthly fee for the damned membership, that money's as good as spent.

I donned my fucking gay workout clothes, which are essentially my pajamas plus sneakers, and got my fat ass to the stupid gym. Are you sensing the undercurrent of rage in this post? Well congratufuckinglations! You're a genius.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. So there I am at the gym, surrounded by hateful healthmongers who are very nearly sweating on me. I plug in my earphones and switch my tv to the Food Network so that I can watch food while I burn lard off my body. The volume isn't working. This is a bad sign. I give up on hearing Giada DiLaurentiis wax on about stuffed shells -- she's got an annoying-ass voice anyhow, how she's always saying everything's so 'crisp' and 'crunchy' -- and start in on my Fergie workout.

Half an hour later, I'm schvitzing like a chazer. I jump off and do my stretches, and wait for the eighty-five-pound ano who's thought to bring her infant child to the gym with her to finish up on the leg-lifty thing. She's too busy making kissy faces at the kid and being all "I HAVE to work off this baby weight!" So I give up and bounce. I am still in a foul mood, perhaps because in my fruitless effort to avoid sweating, I've neglected to get my heart rate up enough to get the little endorphin fuckers flowing. So I decide to treat myself to a shot of wheatgrass, which sometimes has the effect of coke if you drink it on any empty stomach. I'm just coming out of the health food store, having choked down the vile, bilous liquor, when I run LITERALLY right in to my friendly neighborhood drug dealer. Ah, cruel irony! Just when I am beginning to feel all healthy and virtuous, the universe is there to remind me that I'm nothing of the sort.

After some idle chit-chat, I make it home and immediately start to feel the urge to purge. I am not sure if my body is in revolt from the unusually high energy expenditure or simply pissed off I made it drink the equivalent of 2 pounds of leafy green vegetables. Either way, I'm feeling distinctly urpy, and decide that the only real way to remedy the sitch is to bury my face in a plate of seasoned waffle fries, washed down with a 20 oz. coca cola classic. Take that, fitness.

So in sum, my ill-advised attempt to be healthy has, at every turn, been met with reminders of why I'm not cut out for that sort of lifestyle. To paraphrase Fran Lebowitz, I'm better off just chain-smoking and plotting revenge.