Don’t Stop

My sleep had been off almost for a week. One day that lasted too long, and I just couldn’t get back into the groove. Napping days turning into sleepless nights. Frustration set in. Its still off, but I’ve had enough.

Don’t be surprised when your rest kills the rest of your spirit. It bites into your day and what you can accomplish, even if you’re unemployed. There are 960 minutes in a 16 hour day, if you sleep for 8 hours. That’s 960 minutes to get your ass in gear. To work out, to look for work, to clean, to read, to do anything, but sit there and say “There’s nothing to do.” There is always something to do that improves your body and mind.

The biggest killer of motivation is inaction. When you slow, you falter. When you falter, you fall. I’ve worked a full 24 hours, slept for 4 and then gotten back up for another 12. I’ve come home sore and collapsed to get up and do it again. I’ve burned my body to the core before and I did it because there was something coming after. Always after.

When you’re stuck in a rut where you can’t go out, work, or whatever. Remember its just a bump. Its not a roadblock that ends the road your on. Any roadblock is a barrier YOU have put up for yourself. When you say “I can’t,” its no one else’s fault but your own. Climb, dig, tear that motherfucker down brick by brick if you have to. You can trip, get scraped up and cringe through pain, you can rest for minute, but don’t ever, ever stop going towards what you want.


Bonfire, Part 2

Fuuuuuuucccccck, this sucks.

Withdrawal, how I’ve missed you.

I wish it was more Hulk-like. Irritble. Ready to pounce. Like you imagine when your girlfriend’s PMS hits litre sized Häagen-Dazs levels.

Its more like Jennifer Connelly sucking down cough syrup in Requiem. Caffeine. Sugar. Monster Energy. Anything to lessen my body dealing with the lack of nicotine.

The upside is that I’m sore as a motherfucker from using all that chemical energy to work out. I’ve also read, cleaned, ate a shit-ton and anything else I could think of. Keeping the mind away from the body.

For a good cause. A better body requires air, air requires lungs, lungs need not to have smoke in them.




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.