Kick A

I have been working out for almost six months, people. Six months! This is somewhat demented. In the history of mankind, I have never stuck with an exercise routine for this long. It's like asking a pubescent male to remember to shower everyday or a kindergartner to stop picking his nose and eating it. I've succeeded in all of the above. Well, mostly.

So what does this working out do for me? Well, I can generally feel smug. So that's good. But also there have appeared these guns. Not airsofts or magnums or tommys, but lovely little biceps and triceps. Imagine me kissing them right now. See? Smug.

Now that you hate me sufficiently (I would), you have to know that all this is because of Cindy Whitmarsh. Okay, okay, and also my smug sister. But Cindy, too. I heart Cindy Whitmarsh. I would marry her workouts if I lived in England and could marry anything I wanted.

So now all I have to do is keep it up. Pshaw. Just because it will be winter soon and it will be dark and lonely and my job will shortly take over my life like a python squeezes the life out of jungle monkeys and my hours at home will diminish and the stress will stack up like unused phone books doesn't mean I'm giving up! I can't. I mustn't. I shouldn't. It can't happen!! If you could see my face, you would see possibly some spinach in my teeth and then you would see the look on my face which would be a look of pathetic pleading. I must press forward in exercise! I must be determined and relentless. Now my face looks relentless. Especially the eyes. They say (only metaphorically) I will succeed!