It's going to be that sort of post today, folks. Hours out of the last twelve spent exercising? Five. You don't want to know. I want to tell you, but you don't want to know and what's more, I know that you don't want to know. So I'll refrain. My gist, my grist, is that I'm lacking the brain glycogen to properly construct, a point, elaborate, point, elaborate, point a lab rat at a conclusion post. That's just the way it fucking is.
Where was I?
That guy in the gym. Actually I thought I scared the poor fucker away. He's a semi-regular in the spin studio, an exerciser who mixes and matches, does his own thing, and maintains a varied and therefore doubtlessly much more effective fitness routine. So not a die hard, attend every class that Gimme gives, spinner. Sometime back in November I mentioned to him that I bleughed and he asked for the address. I gave it out. He hasn't been back to my class since. Until this evening.
He asked some polite questions about how hard I found it post everyday, and I went on and on about myself, as I am wont to do in these situations. One of the things that emerged from the uncontrollably babbling brook of my mouth was how I had only just let my New Year's posting resolution slip. (12.01 every weekday morning, stupid clip on Saturday, day off Sunday, occasional lapses allowed but always the bare minimum of 20 a month) but that I knew what I was going to wrote tonight.
I don't know why I said that. I don't know why I lie to almost strangers for no good reason. So in apology and recompense, gym guy, this one's for you:
Yeah, no, that was it.