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Friday, October 15, 2004

The Palace of Pain

Gyms are not for fun, no matter how you look at it. While there are some indoctrinated into the idea that 'I can't get by without twenty reps"* here's actually nothing more satisfying than sitting around with a bottle of wine and a bloody big pizza. This is A Fact. The only way that gyms are fun is that it gives you a legitimate excuse to stare at boys in their pants while you're in a committed relationship.

My gym had balloons around the door today.

This is wrong.

That says, to me, 'Come in! Come in! It's one big party in here!' when clearly it's not. Parties have jelly and alcohol and stuff. If I so much as jumped on that little trampoline with an ounce of joy, they would have given me a stern look and told me to lift heavy things. And the only thing close to jelly is that brave man who is several stone overweight, but insists on going on the running machine in lycra. It's hypnotic to watch, I tell you.

By the way, on the way out, I burst a balloon with my house key. I know the only way I would be losing weight would to tie said balloon to my arms, but I felt so much better. But according to the tutting receptionist, I was the fourth to do it in the last hour.

Cool.



* Whatever that means! Look, I heard it once while I was looking at some boy warming up. He could get his leg riiiiight up my his ear, you know...

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