I'm back! With a vengeance! And a sandwich!
So how're things on your side of the internet?
Uhuh?
Yeah?
Really?
Shut the fuck up for a minute, will you?
I've got a whole new bag of shit to complain about, as well as old favourite hates, but I'm trying to turn over a new leaf. See, since the whole social networking thing came around I've turned into a bit of a fiend. No, wait. Friend. That's the one. Well. I say friend. I mean acquaintance.
I'm still in the same old shitbox job and I still live in Colchester, but thanks to a whole bunch of people I've worked out that life isn't as gods-damned terrible as I may have thought in the past. There are actually humans out there that don't despise me on sight. I know, right? I mean, I still hate me on sight about 90% of the time, but I know me way better than they do, so I've got an excuse.
These friends of mine have buoyed me up time and again, even when they're taking the piss. And everyone takes the piss. It's a natural thing - you see someone who you know is in some way better than you are, you make yourself feel better by dissing them in any way imaginable. These friends of mine have been responsible for some incredible times and by the Ruinous Powers it's time I started to appreciate them more.
So mountainous thanks to these friends of mine and a cement-mixer full of gratitude for their tolerance, which is admittedly pushed to its limits a lot.
Now, I expect you're wondering what's prompted me to actually write something that isn't filler, aren't you? Well, keep wondering, that's for me to know and for you to find out, you cheeky interweb spongmonkeys, you.
But I have so much to write about! So very, very much! Let's start out with a bit of linksharing, shall we? Most of you will have already seen or heard this, but bear with the rookies and let them have a shot, yeah?
A favourite of mine, this fellow tears the hearts out of so many videogames it should be illegal, but if there's anyone who can spit bile, venom and raw bitterness like it's going out of fashion, it's Yahtzee:
If I could have a job reviewing games, I would not be able to do it in half as amusing a fashion as that guy.
Now, on to the subject of fitness.
I have never been and, even were my best intentions carried out, probably never will be fit and/or in shape. It is a fact brought on by many years of stewing in the conviction that I will never do many of the things that most of you might consider inconsequential. This includes going for long walks, not wasting five hours of my day playing videogames and critiquing pornography in my own sweaty, rancid fashion, having a girlfriend, having a career, cooking anything more complicated than a roast dinner, or turning down that third Jagerbomb despite the fact that I despise the wretched concoction.
Despite this, something about the gym and things like excercise does appeal to me. I like to think it has something to do with my very, very early years, which were invariably spent running around, bumping into things, falling off things and scraping my shins, knees, elbows, forearms, back, shoulders and more often than not, my face, on a very short brick wall or other slightly gravelly surface. So yes, the thought of spending an hour or two mucking about with machinery that somehow, and I still haven't quite worked this out yet, makes me better both physically and apparently as a person is very attractive .
But at the other end of the scale there is the constant paranoia and overwhelming fear of judgement that has haunted me since my youth and the hazily-remembered lessons about good old dependable Catholic guilt. I blame the other gym attendees. You know them. The keep-fit cunts. They're already in great shape but THAT'S NOT ENOUGH FOR THEM, oh no! All eating up the treadmill miles with their gleaming, toned bodies and form-fitting outfits that, if they could, would speak to me. They would say, in a disdainful, superior tone, "What are you, you strange, blubbery thing, to be tainting our presence with your odour of fear and your malformed excuse for a body?"
To which I would reply, in my meekest voice, while clutching forlornly at my ratty towel and not once looking up from the sparkling laminated wood flooring, "Nobody."
"Precisely!" they would roar in triumphant chorus, before dissolving into fits of hysterical laughter as I quiety take my leave.
What we need is a gym for fat people. Don't look at me all dead-eyed like that, I'm serious. When you join up, you have yourself weighed, BMI done, blood pressure, all the stuff that makes you feel bad when the little numbers finally roll to a halt, and get told the bad news. Then, a specially trained Chunky Chomper (no "wellness advisors" or "life trainers" in this gym, no sir!) will advise you of your ideal weight based on Science. This is what you aim for. You reach your ideal weight through a series of simple excercises, like Chase the Kit-Kat, or Where Did Those Knife-Wielding Chavs Come From?, and then, your membership is terminated, any remaining credit from your monthly payments will be refunded, and you get a great big cake, made almost entirely from bran and chocolate. Bran's healthy, isn't it?
No keep-fit cunts will be allowed at this gym. Only fellow fatties and those whose training is nearly complete. Thus, when training, you will have no disgustingly taut bums or soul-crushingly perky breasts to contend with, no, only one simple motivator: You don't want to be as fat as that guy whose gargantuan arse is devouring the seat from that Megavelobikeatron, do you? THEN GET RUNNING!
I suppose the only serious thing that would get me pursuing a more trim figure, which would still ultimately be barrel-chested with man-boobs and a Judge Dredd jawline, would be the attention of a lady*.
Alright, alright, stop laughing, entertain my fantasy for a moment here: One of the constant, constant, stereotyped abilities, nay, prerogatives, of a partner is changing things until they get what they want - DON'T TRY AND PLAY THE OFFENDED GENDER CARD HERE you'll notice I said "partner" not "woman" and besides there aren't any card inserts or expansions for the Book of Odsox - and they're good at it. I've discussed this with several friends, both male and female, and it's a fact. If a woman you like, or man you like, or animated canine-morph or WHATEVER, wants you to change, you fucking do it, or everything turns to shit in a far shorter time than it might have before.
So maybe that's the trick: buy an evil-minded Russian bride/groom/dog-in-a-suit and set him or her the unenviable task of sending you to the gym.
Either way, it's about time I shuffled off. I have another blog to plan and a half-arsed novel draft to dig out.
Thanks for stopping by!
Love,
Odsox
*Apparently gym buddies are good as well. Safety in numbers, that actually makes sense.