I haven’t been to the gym in a couple of weeks due to the aforementioned health crisis, save for last Sunday when I met Jose. I’ll sum that up by saying a blood test proved me right and my doctor wrong - my dosage of medication was off. I didn’t need Cymbalta, as suggested by my doctor, who diagnosed me as “moderately depressed” based on a short multiple-choice test. And I don’t recommend taking that medication unless you are in desperate need of a case of chronic narcolepsy.
I suppose my absence from the gym concerned my stalker, who called me tonight at 10:30. I gave him my number back when I thought he was cool, but have yet to answer when he calls. This was the third time. It’s all getting to be too much for me. It was fun at first, but now I have The Wiggins. I’m not complaining that someone is approaching relentless in his pursuit of me, but it’s a closet-case who trolls around at the gym. There’s a small society of said trolls there and I do not wish to be inducted into their shame.
The popular opinion of the gym is that it is not the place to be looking for a date, and only a hookup if you are, in fact, a troll. Personally I don’t see anything wrong with someone asking me out in said location or just being flirty in general. Maybe, Jose, for instance? But now I’m dreading going back and I don’t want to switch.
Balls.
Cymbalta. Our time was short, a mere 24+ hours, but clearly we are not meant to be together. You make me sick and wirey, and after more research, your benefits do not outweigh your risks and side effects. And considering I went to the doctor because I am lethargic and you make me twice as much so, I’m not sure you’re really for anyone. I must’ve had my beer-googles on when the doctor was discussing you with me.
And after the same amout of time with Ambien, I am convinced I found my soulmate. And you are kicking in rignt now and I am going to bed before I hallucinate any more.
Up early tomorrow for an ultrasound. He better be hot and single and interested.
Got flirted with by some cute hispanic boy named Jose at the gym. AND he had already seen me shirtless. We had already seen eachother a few times, but I as I was leaving, I passed by him and smiled and he turned around towards me and started with the smalltalk to snag me. It worked.
If this keeps up, my self-esteem is going to be OUT. OF. CONTROL.
I really hope I bump into him again.
I saw my stalker again at the gym today and was struck by how cute he is. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks due to my avid avoidance and the fact that he’s been going to other gyms a lot (he told me). Then I saw him getting friendly with the guy I had been staring at. They clearly have “met” before. Oh no he di’in! I’m not nearly as easy as I like to think I am, but please continue chasing me, kthx. Or we can have a threeway.
I ate a bunch of cookies today and hate myself.
And I don’t enjoy wearing these glasses. I cannot keep them clean, which frustrates me to no end. On top of that, they’re not really all that comfy. And I think that the more I wear them, the more dependent on them I am. When they’re on, I feel like I’m looking at layers of two dimensions, rather than three. I feel like I have a lazy eye when I’m not wearing them. Srsly. And that is unacceptable because I used to work with a chick I called Beatrice on my last blog and I never knew when she was talking to me because one eye was always looking off in the distance. I don’t even know if it worked, but I would constantly find myself trying to jump into its alleged line of sight. “Beatrice, I’m over here…”
One time she told me she was going to keep an eye on me. oRLY. I died.
The other nite I walked into the kitchen where it was dark save for a bright green LED on some appliance. I thought something was attacking me and started slapping my arms around frantically in an effort to scare it off. This is Texas, maybe it was a swarm of bats in my kitchen. Ghost bats you can only see and not touch. Then I realized it was the reflection of the light off my frames and promptly stabbed myself in the neck felt stupid. Glare is a problem, too. I walked into a large store today and the glare from all the lights was like fireworks. Felt like I was looking into a kaleidoscope.
You people have been dealing with this all your lives?
They are cute on me, though.
On a whim today while I was out, I stopped in an optometrist’s office to see if I could get an exam today without an appointment. My whole life, my vision has been better than excellent, except that over the last few years, my right eye’s vision has deteriorated a little. My father’s almost legally blind in his, so I just assumed I was on a downward spiral. Also, someone mentioned that I should get my eyes examined since reading exhausts them. I have never had a proper eye exam, at least not one that didn’t occur in the nurse’s office at a public school.
Anyway, I was there for about an hour, but I got the exam, and the doctor told me pretty much what I already knew: that my right eye is nearsighted and my left eye is farsighted, and the battle between is the source of much eyestrain and headache. He wrote me a prescription. Apparently my left eye, the one with the near-perfect vision, has a tiny, minute stigmatism. Otherwise the Rx would be for the right eye only.
He used drops to induce dilation, and after the exam I exited the building and to my surprise, I had opened the door and stepped onto the surface of the sun. Pure, white, brightness. There was no color. Swear to God, I felt like a vampire and that smoke had to be coming out of my eyeballs. I went back in and a few minutes later I stumbled thru the nuclear fusion to my car where thankfully the combination of the new, dark window tint and my sunglasses made driving no problem.
Anyway, I went home to check up on my health insurance’s optical hardware coverage, which basically amounts to “10-15% off select models,” which I rightfully interpreted as “anything your gramps would’ve worn in the 80’s, and also, go fuck your mother.” In other words, full price was the quote. And I knew this was going to be an uphill battle because I have a big head and it’s hard to find anything that really fits right.
I tried a few big name retailers before ending up at LensCrafters. I immediately tried on and fell in love with a pair of shiny, black Ray Bans. They were the only ones in the store that fit right and weren’t made for old people. There was a pair of D&G’s that looked alright, but not quite. Anyway, I got them… in about an hour, just like the commercial said. Oh, and the manager of the store hit on me and told me I could come back “any..time..[you] want.” Kthx.
I haven’t had much to say since I started going to the gym. I go almost daily, even though the intensity of what I do there will vary, and I feel really guilty if I skip a day even though I know I should take a break sometimes. Anyway, that’s going very well. The scale at the gym says I’ve lost 7 pounds. I’m going to blame it all on the sauna, though - you know it’s all water weight. My love handles and moobs are slightly diminished, however. And my tummy slightly flatter.
I’m deathly afraid I’m going to get herpes there. Maybe not “deathly” afraid, but at least the kind of afraid one is when one is afraid of getting herpes. I’m that kind of afraid. And it’s not the bad bad herpes, at least I hope not. My sister got herpes on her back from a tanning salon and I know the gym is far less sanitary because is essentially a giant two-story urinal. And depending on the time of the day, also a nursing home.
I’ve been thinking I should reward myself for my efforts in such a way that would motivate me to keep said efforts up (I have something specific in mind), but then I think it’s ridiculously premature to do something like that. And then I think that I don’t want to be the type of person who wants frivolous things at all much less make up excuses to get them, and then I think that I hate myself for being the type of person who has to think about things like this for weeks, months or years before making a decision and then I decide that my real problem is that I think too much and that I envy people who can just know what they want and go after it, whatever it is, without regret.
Not me. For me, a frivolous purchase is a moral decision, if not an existential dilemma, if its price tag exceeds roughly $60. Sometimes less, depending on what a waste it could potentially be based on various other factors. This is a side-effect of having grown up dirt poor: Every option should be weighed carefully and decisions based on a complex 3D quality/affordability matrix. “Do I want these jeans? I don’t know, let me grab my charts and graphs.”
Buyer’s remorse, to poor folks, is practically smallpox.
On the other hand, I’m far from being a tightwad, especially when it comes to doing for or spending on others. I’m way too neurotic to have low self-esteem, but I think I’m way more dependent on the neuroses than the low self-esteem, so that is my saving grace. It works out… most of the time.
I’m thinking I’m leaning towards purchasing the reward/incentive, though, especially after the few minutes of therapy that typing all that afforded me.
Also, I need a massage. But the massage therapist at the gym just looks way too happy for me. I need someone with issues to service me so that I can feel like the normal one, or at least in good company. Also, I sometimes view happy people as the ones with problems. For instance, he could be some kind of middle-aged perv who videotapes the session and then takes it home where he can watch it on repeat as he strokes his cat and talks to his dead great-uncle. Or something. Who knows what those smiley freaks do behind closed doors. I don’t want to be a part of that.
Sunday at the gym, one of the employees told me that the weekends are very slow and that during the week only a handful of machines are ever not in use. She was right. On the bright side, the room was full of hotties. And Iwas checkin’ out the bodies. Yeah.
I used muscles today that have been dormant since conception. I was using machines that target back muscles but all the burn was in my arms. Ryan says it’s because I am a mutant and somehow have back muscles developed where my arms should be. But I think it’s dyslexia.
I don’t think anybody laughed at me today. That’s encouraging.
Believe it or not, I managed to actually go to the gym tonight. You know, the one I joined 6 weeks ago. I’m not sure why I was so anxious about it; the anxiety was only partly the reason I procrastinated. I’ve never been to an actual gym so this was all new for me. I made mental notes.
I was excited to see that probably 90% of the people there looked much worse than I! The other 10% in varying degrees of betterness, but mostly falling into the Not Much category. Since I never met with the trainer, I wasn’t really sure where anything there was. But I didn’t want to tell the lady at the front desk that I was new because I didn’t really care for a tour and I didn’t want a crapload of balloons to fall from the upper level or anything like that.
The lower level is lockerrooms and showers, a sort of daycare center for the unruly offspring, a pool and some other things I didn’t see because I didn’t go all the way around. The upper level is the workout area. I figured I’d try to start off doing what my physical therapist had me do over a year ago, so that means beginning with some vigor on the treadmill.
Once my heart rate was sky-high and I couldn’t control my legs anymore, I ventured over to these machines I’ve never seen that emulate actual stairs; it’s like a five foot escalator to nowhere. I got on and got it working and it was moving too slowly, so I kept increasing the level. I didn’t know that it gradually speeds up during each level. Before I knew it, I was running as fast as I could up this thing and I couldn’t take my eyes off the stairs or else they would eat me, and I had to hold on to the machine because it was going so fast since I was on the highest level. And it didn’t have a “fucking STOP RIGHT NOW before this creton dies!” button. So I kept having to reach over and push “level down” continually, risking my life each time my hand moved from the rail.
But then no day of mine is complete without a near death experience.
I needed to slow down, so I wandered to the weight machines where I was distracted by the only bona fide hottie in the place. There was one machine I just couldn’t figure out, though, despite its instructions. Two men nearby were highly entertained.
I tried out a few more cardio machines ( I don’t know what any of them are called) before I finally found THE ONE. The one that I could stay on and keep going despite the burn I was feeling. The way it caused my legs to move made me feel like I was warming up for a dance. I swear to God I nearly busted a move right there. I had to stop after about 15 or 20 minutes.
I stuck a fork in myself at that point.
And then I did my best Katharine Hepburn down the stairs while this hunky black guy laughed. And then I thought maybe his grandmother would proposition me. Who’s laughing now? Oh yeah. Him.
The bathroom/lockerroom at this place is massive. For some reason I thought that might mean the smell would be a little more…diffused. I was wrong, of course: It smelled like hot wet Cheetos sprinkled with parmesan. I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t conducive to the gay sex I was expecting to see, and didn’t. I never should’ve watched Queer as Folk.
So my whole “cardio only” plan to drop a few pounds is clearly a bad one considering I can’t do it for very long before nearly dropping dead. I’ll adopt a more well-rounded approach and see where things lead. But as far as weight training goes, that might be problematic as I found out today just how bad the arthritis in my hands actually is. Ow.
I have to get hot before my numerical age catches up with my “real” one!
Meg, co-worker: “C’mon, just tell me if you’re gay. Are you or aren’t you?!”
Me: “Don’t you think that if I were gay I’d have a better job and be much better looking?”
Meg, co-worker: [long pause] “…That’s true, gay men do have a lot of money…”
This is just one more example of why I don’t like communicating with people in any way that doesn’t involve daggers coming out of my eyes. And I walked right into it, as I usually do. That’s another one of those convos that bounce around in my head long after they’re done (at least a month for that one). Anyway, I don’t mind people I work with knowing about that, but I do make an effort to not have gay sex on my desk during work hours. And it’s easy, considering how often it happens in the first place.
I think I’ve mentioned Work-twink here before, but I’m too lazy to… Work-twink is 20, a complete closet-case, and has a “girlfriend.” I don’t even know what he does there at our workplace. He waves at me a lot. And because I’m a nice guy, I wave back even though I’m trying to look away or do any number of things that involve the swift and necessary extraction of my person. But, really, I am a nice guy. I’m like… a Niceness Cappuccino with Extra Super Foam, but liberally sprinkled with Queen Bitch’s Nutmeg. Seriously.
So anyway, Work-twink has this thing for me which makes me uncomfortable because 1. he’s so fucking awkward, 2. being 20, short, and completely assless and rail-thin to the tune of a Sally Struthers infomercial makes him not my type, 3. he walks with a limp and nobody knows why, which draws all kinds of skeptical intrigue, and finally 4. which was just added to the list will be revealed in the following paragraphs.
Four is a physical kind of thing so -GROSS- that I don’t know if I can write about it, much less think about it. But I will… for you. Last Friday, a day which I do not enjoy to stay late at work, I was driving by the front of the building as he walked out and I offered to drive him to the back of the parking lot because it’s a long walk, and, you know, Niceness Cappuccino.
Long walk, short drive. I could handle it. Because I’m NICE.
We pulled up behind his vehicle and I was thinking “yay, he’s going to get out now.” But he didn’t. He kept futzing around with things and asking questions. Questions like “so, do you have a girlfriend?” “How old are you?” “Don’t you want to get married and have kids?” I should be flattered since it’s rare that males take any positive interest in me whatsoever. But I’m bored.
It drags on, and other co-workers are driving by, seeing the scene and waving goodbye and laughing. Meanwhile, I’m trying to astrally project myself into a sunny meadow. Failing miserably, I finally looked at him to say “HAIL no I don’t want to get married or produce offspring” when I noticed something…strange. Something wasn’t right.
In fact, something was very, very wrong. So wrong that I died and was immediately reincarnated as whoever won the gold medal for Extreme Vomiting (I didn’t just get the medal, I had to die first… you see?) . He was sending a text message. Oh God, I can’t even find the words here. Fungus. Nail fungus. On all his fingers. Worst I’ve ever seen. In fact I’ve only seen people ever have it on their feet, not that I’m looking for it or ever will. He doesn’t have fingernails, he has tree bark - probably from a California Redwood or maybe one of those 1,000 year old Oaks. Some very large, very old tree’s bark… that’s what he had there. And this is hilarious to my co-workers because, naturally, I was the last to know.
And by that point, he had been in my car for twenty minutes. Aside from being severely grossed out and wanting to go home, I was now convinced that both me and my car, Maximo, were contaminated. I can’t bear to do a Google search to find out how it spreads, though my inner voice tells me “hard, fast and repeatedly.” I do feel badly for him, though, and (sparingly) wonder what kinds of conditions led to that for him.
At least when it’s on your feet, I guess you can wear socks and nobody will know, and by default, no one will care. As for now, I have found my germophobia, and it starts with fungi and ends at the door of my vehicle.
I know there are worse things, but this is so typical. Finally a guy likes me, but he’s practically a teenager and obviously a demon.
I haven’t updated in a while, and I’m sure that ones of people are concerned.
I was hoping to come home from work Monday and post the edge-of-your-seat thriller of me being fired from my job, but it didn’t happen yet. I somehow managed to forget that I can’t be fired until they have my replacement ready. I’m barely a company necessity, except in one particular way which requires a license given by the State. One which only I currently hold.
My boss and I don’t get along. At all. Mostly because I’m not much of an ass-kisser. I do my thing and I don’t expect much except fair pay and fair treatment, neither of which I receive. To be honest, I only took this low paying, dead end job three years ago as a temporary thing. And then my health declined and suddenly the health insurance was a must-have. Since my current boss started working for the company last July, I’ve been a bit of a punching bag. I suspect it is because I am gay and as such a constant reminder of his fierce gay nephew whom he believes he can somehow “turn into a man,” which is another story entirely.
When he would call me into his office and scream at me, I’d be a big mess of “yes, I am in fact mildly to moderately retarded and I apologize for not having noted that on my resume, but I am also lazy and have a tendency to daydream and a hobby of trying to see how many thumbs can fit up my ass at any given point in time. All of these things keep my cretinous brain very busy. Please hit me now, thank you, and I apologize in advance for my pained screams. Also, feel free to physically and/or mentally abuse my puppy.”
Because I didn’t want to lose my wretched health insurance.
So last Friday while I was on my lunch break, a co-worker called me complaining that they needed me there, stat, to sign some paperwork or something. And I said I couldn’t be back that quickly. One minute later, the boss calls me screaming, of course, and during that call, yet another co-worker calls and leaves a nasty voicemail. So I let the boss have it. While standing in the middle of Target, of all places.
Incidentally, an hour before all that went down, I found out that my CT scan results were entirely unremarkable (discounting the barely-enlarged spleen and hypothyroidism), and as such, was no longer in such dire need of my health insurance. And the clouds were lifted and the sun was shining and I saw Jesus and all that. All of a sudden, my job needed me more than I needed it.
Cut to me sending a carefully worded yet nasty company-wide email at 5pm.
I kept it short and sweet. Basically: “blame goes here, *points at boss*, leave me the fuck alone, and also your children look like they have down syndrome even though they clearly do not because your children will surely die of stupidity before the age of 11 whereas people with down syndrome can lead long and respectively happy lives, please stop fucking your siblings.”
So I came to work Monday with a box to toss my garbage into. But then I remembered why they can’t fire me yet. The best part is the evil energy field I can cut with a knife when my boss is nearby. He has heart problems, and I’m hoping to make them worse. Ultimately, his disgust for me is enough to keep me satisfied.
I guess I should stay for a couple months longer if I can, though, because I just got two more weeks of vacation and I’m planning one in mid-April.
Having dignity again feels good. I plan on keeping it.
