Hey peeps! What’s a schedule amirite?
Alright, Imma be honest, (psh, like I’m not already…k, that’s a lie…mostly) but Imma be honest. I didn’t want to write this week…or last week. I didn’t. As I’m typing right now, I’m thinking “this is stupid” (yes, I know how to spell it, I choose not to on purpose…in case you were wondering) I’m thinking “there’s so much going on in the world, that just another dude, bitchin’ about absolutely nothing isn’t REALLY gonna change it. In fact, it might just piss some people off, and, like, not in the good way.”
All of that, I’m thinking all of that. BUT HERE THE. FUCK. I AM. Fuck it, I’ve got nothing else to do…that’s not true, I’ve got tons to do, I just don’t find the time to do them…no…it’s not that I don’t find the time. I don’t MAKE the time…(this will have a point once I figure it out, stick with me.)…ok…ok ok ok
I gotta be honest again, I totally had this whole thing written about how I feel about guns and gun laws. Upon realizing that I have nothing good to say about it, I’m relinquishing the argument to others who care more. I’ve got this whole theory…but I’m the only one who cares about it. If you care, ask me, we’ll get coffee and talk about it.
ANYWAYS HERE”S REEEAAAALLYYYY WHAT I WANTED TO BITCH ABOUT
Can we talk about the Gym Douchebag for a second? You know the dude, or chick who gets all dolled up to go workout? No?…oh you know, the weirdly tanned gym stud wearing the graphic T cut-off showing off all his tribal tattoos? (I maintain, by the way, that if I’m feeling spunky enough and I see a white dude with tribal ink that does not look traditional in any way, I’m allowed to ask him which tribe he’s from. It’s a shame that I can’t tell them that “tribe douche” is not an actual thing. I guess open rudeness is frowned upon or whathefuckever).
On more than one occasion I’ve actually had to LEAVE the gym because I was laughing. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t take anything seriously anymore. My workout was over. I’ll tell you how I happened upon this…thing.
I was looking around, judging people, (cuz that’s what you go to the gym for, right) and my shade-riddled gaze fell upon this one mutherfucker…sky-blue-and-yellow Jordans, MASSIVE basketball shorts, one of those fuckin’ sleeveless hoodies, flower-patterned-flat-brim, and a pair of those over-ear-Beats-by-Dre headphones attached to his iPhone…with which he was taking a selfie.
I can only imagine the face I was making. Something that could be described as a cross between disgust and morbid curiosity. The face you make when you smell something completely ghastly but you still want to know where it comes from. Then, like, you start laughing almost uncontrollably and you need to excuse yourself from a public setting cuz open insanity is “not encouraged,” and staring with your mouth open is “creepy” and “unbecoming.”
Before I lose my train of thought… …. …. what?
Oh…before I lose my train of thought lemme tell ya what the description of the “gym douche” does not include:
People who are PASSIONATE about being fit (Bodybuilders, figure builders, crossfitters, and anyone who comes to the gym with a set agenda, who genuinely ENJOY putting together workouts/eating plans/supplement plans and the like). For those people it’s what they do. The people working out. Not the ones sitting down to do a SET OF FUCKING CURLS.
There are TONS of reasons people go to the gym. I can’t speak for other people (except for the dude whose upper-body is JACKED but his legs look like they’re in serious need of a squat set…or seven, I know for a fact he’s there for a date with the 50 pound dumbbells. c’mon man).
The reasons I attend the gym are as follows:
1) I’m vain as fuck.
2) I REALLY don’t want to be fat (which may or may not also have to do with #1)
3) To maintain my ability to give awesome hugs
now, allow me to extrapolate on these points.
1) When I say I’m vain as fuck, there’s really no other way I can think to explain the consistent checking of myself in any and every reflective surface this world has to offer. I wouldn’t say that mine is a prominent vanity, but if “obsessed” isn’t the word to describe how I feel about how I look then I’m not sure what the word would be. This, of course, like almost everything I write, might be a tad hyperbolic. Meaning that my exaggeration has been taken to a level beyond any genuine meaning. Of course, my vain might not compare at all to other people’s vain. Maybe I care too much what I look like. But I’m not obsessed with working out so I guess it’a a good thing I’ve got killer genes (did I say that out loud?) moving on.
2) It’s true. I don’t. I correlate fatness with weakness. I don’t hate fat things or people, nor am I scared of it/them but usually what being overweight constitutes to me (feel free to tell me to fuck myself at any time) is a combination of laziness and over-indulgence. Of course, there are those who are born with a genetic predisposition or contract a medical condition and in that case, there’s only so much one can do. But nothing is keeping anyone from being active. And that’s the long and short of it.
3) It’s been scientifically proven that a hug that lasts for thirty seconds or longer releases oxytonins (or some shit) whateverthefuck the bodies natural “feel-good” enhancers are…it does that. and the longer you hug…the gooder you feel…(I know what I said).
So that’s why.
But the truth is (and I might’ve already said this) it’s tough for me to actually get into the gym because of all the people who suck. Their vanity clashes with mine and it makes for this weird anxious energy. Every time I’m there I feel like I should be doing something different. Literally anything.
Which may or may not be a valid feeling, whothefuck knows?
maybe I’m just in a bad mood. Final thought, If you gotta go to the gym, don’t be a shitty person. The gym is already a shitty place to be. Til next time.
cheers, beautiful people,