Gym Beam

It's amazing how much poking and prodding a man can receive over the course of a day to write in his blog. Not that I mind; I consider it a form of flattery bordering on unspoken love and adoration. It would have to be. These people have a thirst that can only be quenched by my written words! I think you'd have to be at least enamored with a person to desire their writing this badly, especially when one considers the complete lack of anything interesting in my posts.

Once again, I put my nose to an incredibly daunting, tall as a birch tree, sixteen thousand RPM, fine-grain grindstone. This is a truly bad ass stone wheel, emblazoned on its side in fiery letters that say, "GET IN SHAPE!" It's my fault, really; I did it to myself. I always gave myself more credit than I deserved. I never dreamed I would have the weight problem I now face, and I always told myself I would never get myself into this situation. It was a covenant with my own body that I can no longer deny adulterating on. Mel Gibson knows the penalty of such a transgression well. As they say in Thunderdome: "Bust a deal, face the wheel."

Monday morning, I spent nearly an hour on the treadmill. That night I lifted. One day down, roughly two hundred to go. That's one big hill to push the boulder over. I am, however, encouraged by just one evening's results. I can feel my muscles rejoicing at being put to work even now. It gives me confidence, makes me believe that I can be successful and achieve the rock-hard abs, the proud pectorals, the lean and trim skin stretched snugly across the surface of each workhorse in my body.

In other news, four more pages of manuscript over the weekend. This is a much slower pace than I am used to. Four or five pages every few days? Would that I could give more to the typewriter, but I simply lack the energy most nights. When I get home from work, I'm good for a meal, a chuckle at whatever Futurama DVD we put in, perhaps a video game or two, and if it was a good day, possibly an adventure between the sheets of our bed. That's it. That's all I've got juice for.

Some of it is interchangeable; I'm having to trade video games for weight lifting now on some nights. To look at it in strictly technical terms, though, none of those activities could be traded in for a writing session. After a spiritually and emotionally draining day at the office, what little spark I have remaining cannot hope to light the boredom-soaked tinder of my creativity. I have elected to not even bother from this point forward, not unless I am truly feeling it for some reason on a given work night. It happens, sometimes when I least expect it.

One other item of note: My wife has mentioned an interest in updating this blogs layout, using my typewriter as her inspiration. I know you're reading this, love, and if you decide you wish to do it you have my full support and, indeed, my expectant enthusiasm. Since Livejournal I've never had a blog layout I was truly happy with. It would be nice to see it again.
Thank you for your time, faithful readers. I promise I will post again very soon.