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I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else My Profile
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Exercise is killing me. Or the thought of it is at least. Just thinking about having to heave my large legs up the stairs to go to bed is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat which is soon followed by deep palpatations and minor heart spasms. It will be the death of me before long I tell you. I can see the obituary now, "Miss Fee, March 5th 1979 - July xxth 2002, died after too much thought about reaching upwards to blow her nose and the effort that this would involve and this caused her to lapse into a coma." The word exercise is as offensive to me as someone yelling 'heterosexual' at me. The only exercise I currently partake in is arm muscle strengthening which occurs every time I open the fridge so as you can imagine I have one real muscley arm that would put Arnie to shame and one flabby mass of skin which does pretty much nothing expect hang loosely by some side of my body. Actually I do like to exercise my gob a great deal and for no real reason so this is a type of exercise that could be cut out of my daily routine, before it gets me into any real bother. Because of the amounts of food I am ravaging at the moment, exercise is really a hobby that I need to engage in more frequently than a lesbo licking cock. Actually I do walk loads but pretty much no faster than an OAP with a false hip and plastic leg walks so I don’t suppose it really counts. The half hour walk into town from my house takes a good 3 hours. This 3 hours does not take into account the breaks for cream buns and full fat Irn Bru that occur on the hour every hour, a bit like buses really. By the time I actually make it in to town, sweatin like a crab in a nuns fanny, it’s time to return home via public transport, my worst fear but that’s another story completely. And so, because of my expanding waist and face I decided that today would be the day that I would leap out of bed (an impossibility for hippos) and throw myself not into the fridge with all the perishable goods, but into 50 sit ups. It took me a good 15 minutes to haul my ass and its friends out of bed and a further 15 minutes to find a comfy position on the floor. I prepared myself for the big event and tried to force myself off the floor into the sit up position. I succeeded in breathing and a slight shoulder shudder. There was no getting my head the size of 2 footballs off the ground. This 2 second burst of something quite far off energy resulted in a strained neck and an excuse to eat 4 bowls of sugary cereal washed down with extra sugary tea and Irn Bru. Fuck me I’m a monster. It’s like I am allergic to any form of exercise. It’s more like I’m a lazy fat twatt who desires to be thin but can’t be arsed putting any effort into avoiding food and doing a few side stretches. I mean, I don’t expect to be running around doing back bends and vaulting over large objects but really, is it so unreasonable to ask myself to walk at a speed faster than a drunk can speak? Surely not. Tonight I felt the build up for flashdance coming on and I even threw myself into a split leap which had me head first in the paper flowers with my ass on full display but I couldn’t even complete the entire routine before I collapsed onto the floor and friction burned my shiny purple face. What’s wrong with me? Why do I have such an aversion to fitness? Maybe, aside from the ‘lazy fat twatt’ part, it’s the sweat and the heavy breathing that goes hand in hand with it. What’s dignified about dripping stinkin’ liquid and breathing like you’ve got a voice box? Nothing. But anyway, all this talk of exercise is really pushing me close to the edge and it’s time for me to get my hand stuck in a box of Pringles.
Guten Nacht anyone that’s bothered. Britney Wannabe 
7/06/2002 09:23:00 PM
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Adventures of Charmin |
