h.a.l.f._b.a.k.e.d.
If April isn’t screwing me enough, I dare say she just snap the last of my nerve this morning. Painstakingly I woke up with cramps in my legs. Yes, from last night workout. Not sex, you horn-dog.
Tell me again why the fuck did I join a gym. Back then I would have snorted the idea of me stepping into one. What more having a one-year membership! I must be mad (or delusional) when the contract was pushed under my nose.
Confession: I did entered a gym once or twice with friends, mostly just for the company (with the exception of one time I was typing on a laptop critically reviewing the crime scene), but never did I ever touch any exercise machine.
Gym – a fish market nonetheless. Everything is on sales, including the scale machines. The assortment – steel-tone walking muscles (repulsive), lean-mean flaunting curves (enticing), dress-to-kill fashionista (impressive), lost-and-found wannabe (mortifying), and on goes the list.
What am I trying to express? To be continued…
