Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Training Log: 29 July 2010

Morale: Desperate
Type of Exercise: Elliptical Trainer

This morning, while "jacking off" in the shower, I felt an intense emptiness that normally I would combat with a mixture of drugs and alcohol. But, as I
crushed my morning protein shake and devised a surefire way to score some smack--nude, in the glistening sun--I decided I would fight my heroin urges and hop on the elliptical trainer instead.

I did half an hour of interval training and my bursts were so intense I feared a heart attack but welcomed the prospect of Death as the destroyer of all my personal and administrative problems. Wearing only my finest silk undergarments, my cock danced like a sweaty snake to the Velvet Underground who serenaded me through my lime green Sennheiser MX75 Sport earbuds.

In my final burst, I asked for only death or endorphins, but neither came. Semi-satisfied, I crushed a smoothie in the Astro Lab and tried to contact the planets. I have no plans for the rest of the day.


Monday, July 26, 2010

Training Log: 26 July 2010

Morale: Low
Type of exercise: Road cycling

Battling violent winds, I rode along the southern coast. I hated every moment. That cock Aolous was angry at me, all because I fucked his mother last night in a dream. I struggled to keep tempo while the wind battered me and I broke down into tears on the side of the road. Afterwards I felt like shit and vomited a little in the shower--one of those pukes where a chunk gets stuck in your sinus and you hack and hack and hack but it won't shake loose until you finally admit defeat and turn on some trashy television and you are rudely reminded that, oh shit, I have thrown up again and fuck the taste is awful I want to die you bitch Nature you bitch you bitch you whore.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Training Log: 24 July 2010

Morale: Medium
Type of exercise: Run

On Thursday I had a mini-overdose, and when I came out of it, my female doctor advised me to take up exercise. She's short, fat, and very obnoxious with her "knowledge," but I suppose I'll take the bitch's advice.

I have no recollection of the last month. When I arrived home from the hospital, my house was full of cats and sex toys. I ordered Kitty Webb, who continues to live me on a semi-platonic basis, to clean things up. She's been otherwise useless, as there's been a touch of the syph going around.

After a mad night of dehydration and suicidal desire, I went for a lovely, dewy 10 mile run around the perimeter of the estate. The primary aim was speed; the secondary aim was to spiritually transform myself into a gazelle. I hit the first mark, huffing and puffing like a horny teenager having a make-out session with the class slut after a night of rum and reefer, but though I was feverishly horny, it was not the trademark horniness of the gazelle but rather a human hunger to make love to all the beautiful, healthful babes in the world, preferably all at the same time, preferably in a sauna. Damn the disease, but I suppose I'm doing penance. I felt grunty and good.

The sun was newly risen. I was lonely and elite. I howled. When I came home, I wanted nothing to do with that slut Kitty. Her belly is not quite flat. It disgusts me.