Thump. Thu-thump. Thump thu-thump thump thump thump thump. THUMP! THUMP!

I strike the heavy punching bag again and again, trying not to pretend it's really someone else.

Thump. A tingle shoots through my left wrist. The bag swings mockingly.

THUMP! The tingle goes all the way to my shoulder this time and it grows into a jangle on it's way.

The bag swings smugly.

I bare my teeth in a perverse semblance of a smile.

Foolish bag. I'm right-handed.

Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!

Ow.

And now I'm no-handed.

Looks like it's time for sit-ups. Hopefully I'll still be able to jump-rope.

The drops of my sweat that have flown onto the bag gleam in the weak light. The bag wears them proudly, like shiny new victory medals. I start to turn away, disgusted with myself for having been beaten by an inanimate object.

Then the theme from Mike Tyson's Punch-Out (an old-school Nintendo game) starts emanating from my CD player. It is actually a cover of the original theme, done by the Minibosses.) Just under the music I can hear an eight-bit animated crowd roar that they want more, more, MORE!

I turn back to the bag.

Perfect timing, MiniBosses.

That stupid bag still doesn't know what hit it.

Today is Day One of trying to undo the damage I've done to myself. Since I turned 21 over three months ago on May 12, I have been systematically destroying my body with a wicked combo of excessive alcohol and potato, egg, and cheese burritos from Riva's.

And believe me, it shows.

I guess I can't say tonight's workout didn't damage more of me than it un-damaged. I guess that there is an inherent danger in tapping into "negative" emotions to fuel a workout.

Of course, I should know that by now, and so should anyone who used to see me running up and down hills in Kiwanis park until I would throw up into the nearest trashcan.

What a great relationship that was, at least for my physique.


I went out for sushi, with my friends Brian and David, and through a Herculean effort I managed not to order one of the huge bottles of Asahi beer that I love so well. Someday, Asahi. Just not today.

Since we were three guys in a bar, the conversastion naturally turned to fake breasts. It was actually sparked by the entrance of an unnaturally well-endowed woman. The consensus was that fake breasts were not ideal. One reason cited was that sometimes they just look silly. I admitted that fake breasts make me "wary." And they do. When I meet a woman with fake breasts (well, if it is obvious enough that I can tell) I have to wonder what this person is trying to achieve by increasing her bust size.

Hey, maybe she's trying to get me to like her! Hell, all she has to tell me is that she's read Moby Dick and likes The Nightmare before Christmas and I'll probably swoon at her feet. No need for fake breasts at all; cut out the middle mam.

So either she just doesn't know how to win my heart, or she's up to something completely different.

So I'm always wary at first.

I guess as guys go we didn't have very average male discussions. Not that being crude would have been looked down upon. When asked what I thought of fake breasts, I could have easily answered "Yum, yum, gimme some!" and that probably would have been good for a laugh.

But I didn't say that, for the sake of the discussion.

You're Still Here?!

Wow, I haven't mean to write so much, it's just that it's been kinda quiet around my blog-o-sphere circle. It's eerie for me to watch blogs that have dried up from neglect roll past like tumbleweed. I'm sure I'm exaggerating. When you've been haunting this ol' ghost town as long as I have, ya tend to ramble on just fer to hear your own voice.

Well, that and I haven't been sleeping well.