My last dose of caffeine was the Vietnamese iced coffee I made on Friday. Since then, it’s all I’ve thought about over the weekend. I was working and not training so I couldn’t justify having any, even though there is free coffee at work. My productivity outside of work plummeted. I had the opportunity to organize my fahggaught closet which is half filled with boxes but instead I fell asleep on my bed immediately after eating Indian food on both days.
Today I am training – and it should be a pretty grueling session (snatch, c+j, volume bench, volume squat, bench accessory). I realized this morning that I have no carbs in my house (literally – I have grass-fed butter, eggs, and country style pork ribs in my fridge. I ate the last lbs of ribs and 3 eggs for breakfast). So I went to Starbucks to get a java chip frappucino. Look fahggaughts, I know that it is literally 2oz of coffee, that is why after I drank the frappucino I made my Vietnamese iced coffee. Now I am tripping my fucking BALLS off waiting to not have reflux so I can go CHOO CHOO train.
I felt relatively normal this morning without caffeine, which is a lot better than how I felt over the weekend. What this means is I was nearly free of my physiological addiction and now I just kick-started it again.
How many things can you NOT quit? Lifting? Caffeine? Jerking off? Gay erotica, even though you’re supposedly “straight?”
“Have any of you considered that lifting isn’t the problem here? It’s us?”
This is exactly it. The problem isn’t the prison of sucking at being strong, jacked, and shredded. The problem is that 20 years ago I was under the impression that I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up. So I wanted to be a dinosaur.
Then I settled for being a paleontologist.
Then I settled for being a history professor.
Then I settled for being a writer.
And now I write for a blog with an audience of 500 males aged 18-45 who want gay erotica, think I’m a fahggaught, and don’t even know my real name.
And if you were to ask me now, “Since you fucking hate your life so much, what would you rather be doing?” I would say
“I don’t fucking know.”
All I know is that I fucked up 10 years ago by not realizing that I hated interacting with people, so I should have chosen a career field in which I don’t interact with them. But now I’m doomed to a career in which I will not only have to interact with people, I have to pretend that I care about them.
I could have been recruited into the CIA to control a drone and blow up residences in Yemen for no reason. Asian guy with 120APM at his StarCraft prime, it’s not shit for pro StarCraft but it more than passes the requirements to control a drone with two Hellfire missiles, I’d think. I could have been a computer programmer and written code for the NSA’s surveillance program.
Or I could have just gone into fucking web design.
Instead, I get paid to make children cry when I poke them with scary needles and x-ray people’s wrists when they happen to trip and fall while shopping at a strip mall. Not down a flight of stairs, they just happen to trip and fall and think they need an x-ray.
The Oatmeal did a series on running and how when the artist/author runs, “demons are forgotten and krakens are slain.” In this same series, he criticizes people who go to the gym to do bicep curls in the mirror as being narcissistic. First of all I want to point out that portraying running a path that takes you from your fucking front door and then back to that same front door as some kind of spiritual, cathartic journey could not be more narcissistic. Let’s be honest here, you are only increasing your chances of getting mugged or eaten by a wild animal, as every doctor’s board and association in America recommends 20 minutes of low-to-moderate cardiovascular activity 3 times a week as optimal for health. Anything beyond that is excessive and indicative of exercise bulimia.
But The Oatmeal’s delusions as far as the power of running is a mirror of what we do with lifting. It doesn’t actually fix our dissatisfaction with life, but it is a conduit for our frustrations and while we occasionally feel better when we get a solid delt pump or PR our fahggaught bench by like 5lbs for a whopping 215lbs 1rm, no matter how much we pretend that lifting is some great, spiritually fulfilling activity, we are still literally lifting in basketball shorts and sleeveless tees with rehband knee sleeves that smell like MRSA and flexing in the mirror when we get out of the shower wishing we looked like Dmitry Klokov. Or Justin.