working out

I like working out because it is a way to inflict pain upon yourself, yet no one ever questions it. It's masochism, normalized.

Rest

When I use the bathroom at work, I like to rest my head on the toilet paper dispenser. It’s comfortable. Although today I suddenly had the urge to smash my temple on the corner of it. It’s metal. It would have caused severe damage. It’s a good thing that I have learned to control most of my natural impulses.

Great day

I want a sweet. A cookie or something. I'm dying. I hate the fact that I've give up sweets for Lent. What was I thinking? I don't have this kind of willpower. I can't handle the sugar withdrawel. Salt is only good if you can follow it with sweet sweet sweetness. Seriously what was I thinking??? I'm being tested.

Proving how much I can go without: what a great day.

New plan . . .

New plan to squeeze more exercise into my day:

When walking up the 60-odd steps between the 2nd and 5th floor at work, walk up two steps, walk down one step. Don't turn around, and for heaven's sake, don't let anyone see you! But walk up two, walk down one. It's like going down and up twice. Genius.

Preface

It’s almost funny how I have decided that I am crazy. Crazy is not something you ever intend to grow up to be. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that crazy is something that always happens by accident. I don’t know if designating myself as totally nuts does anything to negate my insanity, for if I can recognize that I don’t make any sense whatsoever, can I really be crazy? Whether that is that case or not, I’m going to keep going further and further into the recesses of my thoughts, and I am going to drag you down with me. I mean, I suppose you can stop reading anytime. I can’t promise this will be the fun kind of journey to crazyville. It should be insightful, if nothing else.