Thus Spake ExaWifea


The Ex has finally gotten around to getting a lawyer. My poor ass hasn’t been able to afford one. For the first time in probably near a year, we’re talking, by email, in the most careful and professional way. Today alone has been a back and forth of looking over the papers she sent, pointing out typos and asking for more paperwork. Things were never this organized when we were together… which probably explains how I (“we” until she bolted) got in a lot of debt. I’ll update as the process goes on.


On a separate note, I’ve started to up my workouts. Now that I’ve etched exercise into my habit, the goal is to push and push and push. Yesterday, I used a boxing clock. 3 minutes hard working (shadowboxing with and without weights, lifting, crunches, etc), one minute rest and repeat. Today, I’ve done about 200 body squats with a 10 lbs medicine ball. Alternate through the week, rest on Sunday. As I do this, I work on cutting bad foods from my diet.

I’m looking forward to the six month check-in.


I had her on her couch, her legs wrapped around me, holding me in tight. Our clothes weren’t off yet, but they would be soon. I would be off to Florida soon for only a few days, but she misses me as if my cock gave her life. I pull her up into my lap and we make out harder, shirts fly off and I attack her tiny chest as if they were the perfect pair of tits. My passion, and my need to bust one, drive her insane. In a quick decision, I stand, picking her up, hands on her ass as she wraps tight, ready to go to her bedroom. I shock myself. I’ve never done this with her with ease. When I was younger, I could barely lift her, due to her weight and my scrawny arms. Now, where I am heavier than her small frame by dozens of pounds, it dawns upon my mind of the self-hate I’ve had, based on false sight.

After taking her on the floor of her living room, nearly an hour after I had first entered, I lay, panting, and think of what an idiot I had been for so long. I lay horizontally, 5 feet, 11 inches, long. I weigh 185 pounds, fluctuating to 190. I used to be 155 for years, even into the twilight years of the marriage, until a bout of heartburn and its prescription pill somehow broke the metabolism I had before. I gained 10 pounds quickly. After the marriage dissolved, I gained another 40. When I returned to Canada in September, I was 200. A limit I thought I’d never reach. The skinny kid died crying.

I worried about the fat and the gut like a woman, until I lifted this chubby woman who used to be able to pin me down in high school like she was nothing. Sweaty and grinning, I looked at my arms and realized what I see, the arms of 25 years of skinny, is not what she sees. While my hand covers my bicep, her hand finds trouble covering it all. While there is little definition, under the skin is power, despite what womanly ideas I’ve coveted during years of betahood. While I do not grace gyms, I do work out, lifting the weights my dad has, push ups, and it is doing benefits, even if abs do not grow beyond fat on demand or veins pop out ready for the silver screen.

The power another looking upon you as if you were Heracles himself, instead of you looking in a mirror, combing for flaw after flaw, aids us. Sometimes we need others to remind us, especially if beta-tainted by the past, that not all of us are genetic masters, but, with hard work, we are just as strong and just as virile.

Good Habits

Its time for them.

I’ve always been a messy guy. Losing things in a pile of crap. As of this writing, I’ve lost my passport. I kind of need it to quickly cross the border. Its not THAT bad, but I’ve had it and lost it twice since I moved back. Shit’s got to end considering my next job pipeline will require constant cross border trips.

Step one, a go-bag. All the things I’d need for a job or border crossing in one, easy grab-able bag. Notebook, pens, passport, flash drive, etc. My last gig was on the 3rd and I was so dead tired I forgot to bring a bag, which left me hauling batteries and everything else with just my hands. Not a big deal when it was a short shoot, but not a mistake I want to make if the day was longer and more labor intensive.

Step two, cut down smoking. I like to smoke, but I’ve gotten to a point where its bringing me more problems than pleasure. I can feel my body slowly getting weaker, which probably has to do with a lack of constant exercise as well. I bought a pack today at noon and I’ve already had seven. Tomorrow, I’m going to cut myself down to four. Slowly ween myself down. I probably won’t stop anytime soon, but I can’t keep going at this rate.

Step three, organize. With the go-bag, I’m going to have to find spots for all the shit I have. I’m in a single room with a 3-bedroom apartment worth of shit, but its doable. Keep it clean, keep it tidy and things will be easier to find. That includes a ton of shit that’s still in my car I keep having to shift around every time I get the First in the backseat.

Step four, eat better. I’ve been living on shit food since leaving Utah. On and off, I’ve tried to eat better, but its just easier, as designed, to eat shitty foods. Pay a peon, get food. Like a hamster. No longer.

Step five, exercise regularly. I was on a pretty good exercise streak before the shit hit the fan. Time to get back on that. I was walking at least 7 miles a day at work. I was doing push ups and other upper body exercises as well. I was filling up on protein, greens and fruit. My highest back then was 170 (I was 155 for a long-ass time). Now, I’m nearly 200 for the first time in my life. I’ve got a gut and the whole bit. It hasn’t slowed my confidence down one bit, but it won’t help my health. Though, on a funny note, I’m now heavier than a lot of my past girls, including the bi-polar about her weight Ex.

Step six, PROFIT!