Why the Gym Makes Me Cry. Part 2

My friend asked me to go to a spinning class. Contrary to what you might believe, spinning class is not where you spin around in circles repeatedly until you throw up, which seems to me like  the most effective way to lose weight. Rather, it’s where you go to town on a stationary bike. And when I say go to town, I mean go to town.

Those spinning bikes are not like the regular exercise bikes. Fucking exercise bikes are chaise longues compared to spinning bikes. Spinning bikes are basically misshapen jungle gyms you have to straddle like a mechanical bull.

The worst part is the seat. It’s basically a shark tooth. There is no large flat surface area- which is universally agreed upon as the prerequisite for a seat. It’s a T-shaped hunk of hard plastic; there is no place for your butt cheeks to go so they flop to either side and what you’re left with is a penis shaped piece of plastic grating against your foul line. Which, actually does explain why spinning is so popular. Apparently I haven’t broken in my shoes, so to speak.

What my friend and I were discussing later, in serious tones as we skipped out of class early, was how men are able to do it. Where do the balls go? Where? Or the peen itself? My vag felt like I had just left a 3-day pap smear orgy by the time we were done. I don’t even want to know what it would be like if you had a penis. Ok, maybe for a day…

At certain points, the instructor asks you to stand up on your bike and you basically put your weight on the handlebars, which feel like sweaty dildos. When you stand up and pump your legs, the inevitable happens: your fine, soft butt meat slams against the point of the seat.

Imagine getting ass raped by a jackhammer. Or, that Woody Woodpecker lives in your pants and your butthole is made of wood.

By the way, the instructor is a fine Italian leather handbag with amazing legs and fake boobs. Her job is to spin like a fucking badass while blasting rap songs from the early 2000’s and yelling things through her microphone that you can’t hear over the music. 

*Note. This is an artistic interpretation. The instructor did not have four fingers on one hand and seven on the other. Drawing is not my strong suit.

Spin class was supposed to last for an hour. There were no clocks. We didn’t have our phones with us- even if we did, it would be impossible to check without falling off the bike. We exited the world of time. We were in an infinite dimension of spinning. I found myself silently praying to make it through. I admonished myself for being such a wimp and thought about how awful it must’ve been to live through the Holocaust. My fallback on comparison of human suffering is always the Holocaust. Whenever I experience pain or sadness, like a killer hangover or I missed 30 Rock, I say to myself, “Think of the Holocaust!” And I carry on. 

Alas my poor friend was only probably thinking about her husband’s reaction if he found out a spinning bike took her anal virginity before he did, and she looked at me with a face of a woman who was told to pick which of her children be sent to the gas chamber. She was in agony. 

I tried a half-assed fake smile as encouragement. For some reason, this didn’t work.

“Caaait,” she moaned. “We need…to…go.”

“Pick Elda,” I hissed. “She has that awful gas problem. She’s not meant for this world.”

I was dizzy and tired and mesmerized by the Cheeto with boobs. She was yelling things. We couldn’t leave. She was yelling!

“Caaait,” my friend whispered like people do in war movies when they’re dying. She was wilting like a Peep in the sun. 

“Ok,” I said, “We’ll leave.” We stumbled off the bikes and tried to sneak out, drawing as little attention to ourselves as possible.

That’s when the instructor said into her microphone, “Girls, can you please raise your seats before you go?”

Crap. We fumbled with the “seats” for about a minute, obviously clueless.

“If you can’t figure it out, don’t worry about it,” she said into the microphone.

Oh, God. Please stop saying things to us. We’re scared!

 We walk-ran out of there and caught our breath in the locker room. After that we went out for Gyros. They were awesome.

  

Nevermind

I've decided to keep the name as you can tell with my new banner. Hope you enjoy my mad Paint skills. Real post coming soon.

I'm changing my name

Any suggestions? Something that doesn't sound graphically sexual without meaning to be, perhaps? Naming things isn't my strong suit. My dog's named Marge for Chrissakes. It's time for a change.

Me Want Food!

Good news. Tooty’s transplant was successful! With my laptop restored, I can tell you my story without having to sit in a chair like a human, which is annoying and frankly a little hoity toity for my taste. I prefer to sink into my couch like a sloth on a benzo binge --perfect  for my indolent finger tapping.

Blah, blah, blah, transition.

On Tuesday, I went on a juice fast where I consumed nothing but fresh vegetable juice, vegetable broth, water, and tea. A lot people do it for days or even months!!! at a time. I however, as a rule, tend to be very weak- physically and emotionally. I’m pretty much constantly on the verge of tears and shitting my pants.  So I figured 24 hours would be good enough to flush out whatever toxins have set up shop in my fat cells. If there are some left afterward, fine. I want them there. I’ll personally hand out t-shirts to them that say “I Survived the Fast.”  

But anyway in the morn’ I used my juicer to turn carrots and celery into an umber sludge.  Sucked it down like a motherfuckin’ Dyson and lazed in front of the wonderbox to watch a comely little wood sprite play doctor. Little known fact about Dr. Oz:  On weekends he flies home on the back of a ladybug to a hollowed out stump in the bosom of the Turkish forests, where he lives with his life-partner, Temel, an overly- emotional, sometimes jealous, but really very giving cricket who wears a bowler hat and plays the mandolin. 

After Dr. Oz, I finished up the editing I needed to do without further injury to the computer. I was sort of sluggish and thinking a lot about food, but that’s me every day.

I took my dog for a walk, which was fine at first, but when I got home I felt like I had power-squatted around the block, instead milling around with my shih-poo. When I got home I flopped on the couch, sort of like a dying fish, except one that’s given up. One that knows deep in its gills that life is ultimately meaningless, especially for a fish whose lot in life is to be processed and reformed, along with its brothers and sisters, into a perfectly square Filet O’ Fish patty. Where’s the Fishenstein family reunion this year? In my belly! Haha!  

Ok so I flopped on the couch like I was about to be made into crispy golden fish-toast.  I then closed my eyes and well, I don’t want to call it napped. It was more straddled the line between life and death. I mean dumpster babies get better naps. Let me explain, babies are notoriously bad at staying asleep. It would be like times a thousand if said baby was in a dumpster.

No. I’m not being dramatic. Seriously, withdrawing from delicious processed food (eg Toaster Strudels) is nearly as bad as withdrawing from heroin. Side note: I don’t know what eg stands for but I’m pretty sure I always use it correctly. Points for me!

I had so many aches and pains, I felt like I was a used Toaster Strudel icing packet. Get it? You have to squeeze the shit of those things. It would hurt. C’mon I know you know. 

So I was all achy plus I was starving. And I was sort of delirious and Oprah was on and she was shouting about Australia and so I decided to go to Whole Foods to buy veggies for vegetable broth. It turned out to be a mistake. I’d never been to Whole Foods but I shouldn’t have been surprised to find it full of yuppies staring at me with their slightly concave, overly white eyes that they have, whiffing past me with a self-satisfaction one can achieve only with producing shit that’s 100% organic, stiff anglo hands white-clenching their baskets, bird bones flush against sallow skin. Yeah I know I get angry when I’m hungry, but apparently also a little paranoid. I swear to Flax Seed that everyone was giving me frackin’ googoo eye. She’s not one of usssss. They were all whispering it like the healthy, judgmental snakes they are. 

Also. They had free samples.  Every where. Creamy goat cheese. Crunchy whole wheat crackers. I wanted to smash that shit like it was Rihanna’s face. Aw shit- little dated I know. I’m going to give Whole Foods another chance. I’m a lot more accepting towards humanity with some food my belly.

I was hungry and scared so I grabbed some vegetables and got out of there. I don’t exactly remember what I bought, but I wouldn’t be surprised if in reality I just went out into the alleyway and grabbed some old tires to throw in a pot. 

I let it simmer for an hour, falling asleep again for a bit. Anyway the broth was fantastic. Glorious even.  The best thing I’d tasted all year (besides toaster strudels). And so I was all sort of full of energy. I went to go pick up a friend and we watched movies and then that’s when it started. The coughing. Could not stop.

Awful bone-rattling tuburculer nonsense. Ridiculous. Phlegm everywhere.  And there was heinous pressure on my chest. It was incredibly difficult to breathe and when I did, it sounded like someone opening the screen door to an abandoned farmhouse.  

Good thing the movie we were watching was Stomp the Yard 2: Homecoming. I managed to get the gist of it over my body imploding upon itself. 

I’m pretty sure I got bronchitis. I could hardly breathe the next day and the coughing continued for a bit. The moral of the story is this: Don’t stop eating Toaster Strudels.  You might die. 

I killed my baby today

Oh phuck I am so sad. So sad I can't propery curse in my own blog. If I could slit my wrists and have them heal right away, I'd do it as an illustration of just how sad I am. Actually, no. I'm not that sad yet. I'll save that for when Taco Bell forgets to give my drunk ass the right amount of mild packets. I'm not drunk right now, I'm just usually drunk when I go through Taco Bell. Not like I drive drunk or anything, someone else drives drunk for me. Anyway I'm sad and now I want Taco Bell. And to be drunk. But I can't because I'm at work and I'm not sure what their policies are on drinking in the work place. They probably don't have a policy against blogging on the job but since I have access to a computer it's happening. If I had access to a bottle of Jack, well I just might brush my teeth with it- as part of my goal of being more like Ke$ha, which ironically forces me also to be more like P. Diddy. This is stupid. What you're reading is stupid. Written by a stupid, stupid person who is literally fantasizing about a baja beef gordita. Apparently I want to eat my sadness. I think it would be good with extra sour cream. Ok so this is what I did: I broke my computer. My new, clean white shiny Vaio. I broke it.

Let me explain. I don't want to spend nine milllion dollars on Micorsoft Word so I'm using the "free" version my laptop came with. Looking back, I should've just jacked it off the internets like I did with my Compaq. Anyway I was doing some editing for a friend and I was on the last page of the chapter, ok? The Last Page, when there was an error- an error that erased half of my changes.

So I did what any normal person would do, I strangled my screen. Not very hard. I just twisted it a little. I swear to the Laptop Gods that it was barely anything. It was like tearing a piece of paper in two. That's the amount of force I used. And then the screen made a gut wrenching cracking sound, like bones breaking and then the colors of my background image started to like, liquefy and run together and oh it was awful. My laptop was bleeding. There's no other way to describe it.

Why in the hell would you sell someone an extremely fragile device that makes them extremely angry? Is it like the gum manufacturers who make their gum to lose flavor so customers keep buying more? I know gum does not need to lose flavor that fast. It's a marketing scheme. You're telling me we can build rocket ships and MRI machines but we can't chew a stick of Big Red for more than 30 seconds without having to pop another one back in?

Sorry for the rant but this just happened. I'm still in shock. What should I do? Do I bury the remains in the backyard? Tie a brick to it and toss it in the Mississippi? I'm scared, guys. And I feel awful. I loved little Tooty so much. I just named him that. Oh no, the name makes it worse! Why Tooty? Why?!!!!

I took a pic with my phone of the carnage. But I can't upload it onto this computer and the mobile blogging thing isn't working. I like to have a picture in all my posts so.... here's this.

Yes, this is her back.

UPDATE

 I have to use a monitor from the 1800s and connect it to the laptop




Otherwise my screen looks like this