Mario and Luigi

 

Two-Sentence Horror Story: A Stone's Throw Away

After an hour of standing in front of the toilet, Frank passed the world’s bloodiest and most painful kidney stone in existence. It could one day be used as the business end of a morning star.

Characters Going to the Bathroom

***CHARACTERS GOING TO THE BATHROOM***

When I was little enough to think that piss and shit were funny, I watched movies and TV shows with one burning question in mind: “Why don’t these characters ever go to the bathroom?” Or a more appropriate question for my age group would have been, “Why don’t these characters ever make pee-pee and doo-doo?” This question would continue to burn like an asshole after eating too many spicy wings, something I have too much experience with. It’s true, though, even after all these years of maturing (somewhat): characters never seem to have to go to the bathroom even after eating questionable food. You know why? Because nobody wants to see it, that’s why!

It’s like George Carlin once said: “I’ve never really understood it nor have I really cared for it.”

“I’m going to the bathroom to take a shit.”

“NEVER MIND! Do what you have to do in the bathroom and leave me out of it! And don’t describe it when you come back!”

“Boy, you should have seen it…”

“NEVER MIND!”

“It set off the smoke alarm.”

“NEVER MIND!”

If a character is going to make pee-pee and doo-doo, there better be a plot-related reason for it. Sure, constantly visiting the john would make for realistic storytelling, but not necessarily good storytelling. For instance, let’s say in my rewritten novel Beautiful Monster, Shelly had Windham shackled to her bed and suddenly had the urge to take a wee-wee tinkle. Let’s say she drank too many of her signature milkshakes, without the sedative drugs, of course. How exactly would her urinary needs be met in a way that moves the plot along quicker than her digestive system moves things along? Let’s say she relieves herself over Windham’s face like a Russian prostitute. Does this help the story? No, it doesn’t. Does it turn the reader off and not take Shelly seriously as a femme fatale? Absolutely!

I can only think of a handful of times where bathroom trips helped advance the story along without being disgusting as fuck (most of the time). Quentin Tarantino used bathroom trips as a plot device for Pulp Fiction at least three different times. Vincent had to go to the bathroom when he took Mia Wallace home, leaving her all alone to OD. Had he not gone to the bathroom, the overdosing could have been prevented and therefore, there’d be no infamous scene where Vincent stabs Mia in the chest with an adrenaline boost. Vincent also happens to be on the toilet when Butch goes back to his apartment to get his father’s watch. Had Vincent not been in the bathroom, he would have killed Butch and there’d be no infamous dungeon scene later on. And finally, Vincent goes to the bathroom during the restaurant robbery scene. Had he stayed at his table, he would have thwarted the robbery and Jules wouldn’t have his come to Jesus moment of clarity.

Another example of bathroom plot devices being used to full effect comes from Tales From the Hood. No, I’m not referring to any scene where Crazy K shits himself on the spinning table, because that never happened. I’m talking about the first story, which deals with racist cops. One of the cops urinates on a civil rights activist’s grave. Had he not done that, the zombie wouldn’t have risen from the grave to rip the cop in half and therefore, there’d be no comeuppance for the rest of the cops.

In short, the whole reason why you never see characters going to the bathroom at inconvenient times is because nobody wants to see it. Nobody wants to see Gimley from Lord of the Rings taking a massive dump nor do they want to smell it. Nobody wants to see WWE wrestlers have accidents in the ring, which has happened before, regrettably. Stone Cold Steve Austin once shit his trunks while getting body slammed by Yokozuna in a match in South Africa. Good thing his trunks were black.

Are you sick and tired of all of this middle school toilet humor? If so, you’ve just confirmed your own reason why you don’t want to see toilet breaks in movies and TV shows unless they serve a bigger purpose. Rarely does it serve that bigger purpose, though. If bathroom breaks were as random and haphazard as they were in real life, it would border on Deus Ex Machina storytelling and that’s a big no-no. Suppose Darth Vader had food poisoning at Taco Bell right before his light saber fight with Luke Skywalker in The Empire Strikes Back. If Vader went to the bathroom, Luke could get an easy kill and wouldn’t lose his hand nor learn that Vader is his father.

I feel disgusted for having written this blog entry, but it’s a topic that I’m sure was on everybody’s mind at some point in life, whether in middle school or adulthood. We’ve all thought it, but we’ve never actually dug deeper into the question. Maybe it’s best that we haven’t. Maybe this controversy should be put to bed once and for all. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***SONG DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

NURSE: Excuse me, doctor? Do you have a moment?

DOCTOR: A moment? What’s the question?

NURSE: More like a situation. A gentleman in exam three.

DOCTOR: What’s the problem?

NURSE: That is the problem: we’re not sure.

DOCTOR: Do you have the chart?

NURSE: Right here.

DOCTOR: Hmm…not much here, is there.

NURSE: No, doctor. No obvious physical trauma and vitals are stable.

DOCTOR: A name?

NURSE: No, sir.

DOCTOR: Did somebody drop him off? Maybe we can speak to them. Let’s get some background on this fellow.

NURSE: No ID. Nothing. He won’t speak to anyone.

DOCTOR: Well, let’s go and say hello.

PATIENT:…

DOCTOR: Good morning, I’m Doctor Lawson. How are you today?

PATIENT:…

DOCTOR: How are you today?

PATIENT:…

DOCTOR: Look son, you’re in a safe place. We want to help you in whatever way we can, but you need to talk to us. We can’t help you otherwise. So what happened? Tell me everything.

-“Lost Keys (Blame Hofmann)” by Tool-

Incelbordination, Final Chapter

The Patron Saint of Involuntary Celibacy chased Valerie Sand down the empty streets, his breath becoming hungrier and hornier as he got closer to the bare-legged beauty. Every step led her into a nyctophobic nightmare while Antero Magnus grinned with fanged teeth at the loveliness of it all. He could smell her cold sweat and it was more intoxicating to him than any high-end perfume. Just like in true horror movie fashion, Valerie banged her knee against a light post and crumpled to the ground sobbing.

Antero’s Cheshire Cat grin widened as he savored this moment with slow, deliberate steps. Oh, what he wanted to do to this unfortunate victim. Where would his hands explore first? Her smooth legs? Her lovely feet? Her ample breasts? The buffet-like possibilities gave him a tingling sensation in his ball sack. “So beautiful, Ms. Sand…now you’re going to share that beauty with me whether you want to or not.” Even with tears raining down Valerie’s face, Antero saw no qualms about leaning in for what would surely be a passionate kiss. And then…

“Who are you calling beautiful?!” shouted a gruff voice that awakened Antero from his dream. The horny dream allowed him a temporary vacation from his real nightmare: a dark prison cell with a hairy muscle freak lying in the upper bunk bed. The terrorist took a while to catch his breath and dry his cold sweat. He even felt the scar across his face to see if it had scabbed and it did. Rough ridges of dried blood decorated his already creepy visage.

Antero’s cell mate leaned over the bunk bed and scowled at him, his hairy tattooed face a mosaic of true terror. “You must be having another one of your wet dreams. You keep that shit up and I’ll make sure you won’t be involuntarily celibate anymore! I’ve been looking for an excuse to jump you and now I might have found it.”

“Yeah, get yourself locked up in solitary. Great idea, champ,” scoffed Antero as he laid on his back with his hands behind his head.

The hairy beast laughed his ass off in a throaty, barbaric voice. “You really think these guards give a shit what happens to you in here? I could butt fuck you until your intestines fall out and nobody would come to your rescue. This ain’t no PC liberal-ass college campus, buddy. This is the big house.”

Antero swallowed a lump of saliva and feigned bravery when he said, “You’d better knock that shit off. I used to lead…”

“You used to lead what? A bunch of horny losers who are pissed off about not getting laid? Is that supposed to mean something to me?!” The cell mate jumped out of bed and stood over Antero with heavy breathing bouncing his colossal chest up and down. The incel leader backed up a little bit even though he was in the bottom bunk and had nowhere to go. “That pretty little mouth of yours doesn’t know when to shut up. It’s like it’s got a mind of its own. Why don’t you put that mouth to better use?”

The prisoner dropped his pants and underwear to reveal a forest of greasy hair underneath. Antero intentionally shielded his eyes so that he didn’t have to see what redwood that forest was hiding. He didn’t get much of a choice after that when the cell mate clutched Antero’s jaw and caused him to thrash around in the vice-like grip. “Shut the fuck up and stop moving around!” shouted the cell mate, orders which Antero blatantly ignored as he yelled for help.

“Like I said, nobody’s coming to save you! All your horny faggot friends are getting some of what you’re about to get. All the guards are busy making sure you don’t get out. That just leaves you and me, buddy, you and me. We make a perfect couple, don’t you think? You can be my housewife. You can scrub my dishes. You can do my laundry. You can…”

Shuddering at the idea of what he was about to do, Antero reached for the prisoner’s erection and bent it with so much force that it snapped in two. The screams that erupted from his throat afterwards transformed this prison into a bear enclosure. Antero’s cyan eyes lit up with psychosis as he watched his cell mate drop to his knees while clutching his broken junk.

The terrorist got out of bed and stood over his foe with a disgusted scowl. “You see this? This is what involuntary celibacy is all about. This is what I used to preach to my followers. I bet you got a lot of ass during your time under lock and key. But now those days are over. They’re especially over after you get out and find a real woman. Oh wait, I forgot…no woman will never want to date you again!”

As Antero laughed like a crazed movie villain, the prisoner threw a punch aimed at his gut. The arm moved too slowly to make a connection as Antero grabbed the prisoner’s elbow and twisted the arm into a bone crunching submission hold. The incel leader’s expression dripped with lust while the prisoner begged for his life. “No more jerking off for you!” said Antero as he hyper-extended the arm with a resounding crunch.

The cell mate laid on the ground in a broken heap of screaming and snapped body parts. Just like in his wet dream, Antero’s nether regions came alive with electricity. “You think I’m just a horny kid who can’t get what he wants? I’m a man’s man. I always get what I want in the end. Incelbordination isn’t going anyway anytime soon just because I’m stuck here with you. We are everywhere. And you? Now that you’re guaranteed a life of celibacy…you’re just one of the boys!”

“Fuck you, pal!” shouted the defiant prisoner, who received a few kicks to the ribs for his efforts.

“You know what?” said Antero. “I’m done playing games with you. I used to know a guy who was just as pathetic as you are right now. His name was Oswald Crow and I thought there was something special about him. Well, I’m done with thinking anybody’s special, including you. It’s a shame since you’ve got a few feet over Oswald. You could have been one of the great all-time Incelbordinates. But no…you’re just another victim of the system!”

Antero grabbed the prisoner by his unkempt hair and dragged him to the toilet while making straining noises. As grimy as the terrorist’s fingers became, it would be a nothing compared to having shit water cover his hands while he held his opponent’s face in the bowl. The prisoner kicked and gurgled with whatever strength he had left, but Antero refused to let up and even allowed his own eyes to roll in the back of his head for extra psychosis. The harder the prisoner struggled, the tighter Antero’s teeth clamped down. And then…the struggle stopped and the prisoner was limp, his lungs and mouth full of disgusting toilet water.

Antero shoved the prisoner to the ground and stood over him triumphantly. Giving a speech to nobody in particular, he shouted, “You see this?! This is what your prison system produces! He came here looking for an outlet and now Satan is shoving a trident up his ass! Anybody else want some?! Are you ready to give me the woman I deserve?! Or do you just want to sit there and bleed like this moron?!”

The cell door flung open and revealed a squadron of pissed-off looking prison guards carrying batons and pounding them against their own palms. The captain gazed down at the prisoner and then narrowed his venomous eyes at Antero, who looked as though he was just caught masturbating. “What do you want on your tombstone, you little shit? I’m asking for an undertaker who wants to bury you next to Uncle Tuomas.”

“You want a quote? You want a fucking quote?!” asked Antero with extra psychosis in his voice, never once causing the guards to flinch. “I got one for you. It’s about damn time you showed up!”

“Fair enough,” said the captain before whacking Antero across the stomach with his club. The terrorist felt as though he was going to vomit himself inside out after such a blow. And then another baton shot caught him clean across the back of the head. And then a kick to the shoulder rendered him useless. And then repeated stomps to the sternum slowed his heart rate down to dangerous levels. The terrorist could feel his eyelids getting heavier than a grand piano while his crunching bones created a melody of beautiful music.

The beating eventually stopped and Antero was dragged out of his cell by his wrists, his body bloodied and broken while his mind drifted in and out of consciousness. He might have met his maker, he might not have. He could feel the devil’s trident entering his sensitive areas and he wasn’t even dead yet. Before that all important dinner date with Satan himself, he heard a nearby prisoner whispering something that put a smile on his face: “Death to Chads and Stacys!”

THE END?

Toilet Cleaner

VERSE 1

The glass ceiling is lower than the floor

I earn my check, yet I always need more

Scrubbing your toilets spic and span

Not much of a future, not much of a plan

I could never be a real family man

Then again, how could I give a damn?

Power is something you’re born with

Every other talking point is bullshit

CHORUS

Toilet cleaner!

American dreamer!

Toilet cleaner!

Silent screamer!

VERSE 2

It’s not the smell that assaults my nose

It’s that my grave won’t earn one rose

It’s not the work that destroys my back

It’s being left behind in the corporate pack

It’s not the graffiti imprinted on the walls

It’s the thanklessness of scrubbing the stalls

Honey, I’m home! Oh wait, I’m alone

These slothful sins I shall never atone

EXTENDED CHORUS 1

Toilet cleaner!

American dreamer!

Toilet cleaner!

Silent screamer!

Bathroom bitch!

The new non-rich!

Restroom junkie!

Low-grade flunky!

BRIDGE

I drop the mop!

Say fuck it to the bucket!

I quit this shit!

I school these fools!

My path of wrath!

The edge of dredge!

Bow to the cash cow!

Never forever!

EXTENDED CHORUS 2

Master of my destiny!

Master of my enemies!

Slave to my deepest rage!

Beast inside a steel cage!

Toilet cleaner!

Megaphone screamer!

Bathroom bitch!

Pull the kill switch!

Shooting Star

Rachel Phoenix finally figured out why the structure she was climbing was called the Tower of Venom and it had little to do with the owner’s namesake. Even with a black veil over her nose and mouth, she still gagged and coughed at the fowl odor emanating from the barred windows. Feces, urine, vomit, and god knows what else assaulted her slender nose like a war hammer to the face. The heat waves from the oncoming shooting star in the sky baked this biological sludge like the ophidian tower was a gigantic oven. The elf rogue had no time to waste vomiting herself inside out. This mission had to be completed no matter how badly she wanted out.

Just a few more dry heaves in her ninja veil and a hell of a lot more tugs on her grappling hook and the winded elf in black rags rested on the top of the tower for a while. She could just drift off into dreamland no matter how horribly it reeked. In fact, this murderous odor would have been the perfect anesthesia if it hadn’t been for the raucous sound of a tornado fart echoing throughout the land. Rachel snapped out of her trance long enough to hold onto her rope with a death grip to avoid being blown off.

Once the literal shit storm subsided, Rachel couldn’t hold her lunch down any longer. She removed her veil spilled her guts off the side of the tower. The tidal wave of sickness left her light green skin pale and her muscles so weak that she could barely stand up. She was barely on her knees when she turned around and saw the source of the odor in its entirety. There he was: the ironclad dragon giant sitting on…a toilet. The Tower of Venom…was a giant fucking toilet…for a giant fucking man dragon.

Atlas Venom, as the giant was known, laughed so hard that he sent another gust of wind Rachel’s way. The tiny elf held onto her rope with the strength of someone ten times her size. Sickness or not, flying away in the barf-worthy breeze was an undignified way to die, especially when so many lives were at stake.

Once the giant’s obnoxious cackle ended, he leaned his rotten skull down to level with his intruder and asked, “Can I help you?” The elf rogue took the time she needed to catch her breath and settle her rumbling stomach. “Well?!” Atlas belted.

A few more heavy breaths later, the elf said, “My name is Rachel Phoenix. I’ve been sent here by the Order of the Forest to keep you from doing something incredibly stupid and potentially dangerous. Well, you do stupid shit all the time from what I’ve heard, but this is really going to get your attention.”

She pointed at the flaming star in the sky, which seemed to have grown tremendously since she last gazed upon it. “You see that? We all know you have the power to smash that thing to pieces. You’ve smashed everything else to pieces, why not a shooting star? But if you do that, neighboring villages will be affected by the blast radius.”

Atlas scratched his ass and belched a cloud of toxic sludge before standing to his full height and pulling his iron pants up. Rachel didn’t know what was more disgusting: the tower slash toilet or the fact that Atlas’s lesion-covered ding-a-ling had been hanging there this whole time. She tried to keep herself together by gently massaging her stomach.

“Listen, you dumb bitch,” burped Atlas. “I don’t hear you coming up with any great ideas on how to get rid of that thing. Last time I checked, I’ve got pubic lice bigger than you, so there’s no fucking chance you’re going to smash that thing away. If you’ve got any better ideas, then you’d better start flapping those gums or else you’re one dead little whore!”

Rachel folded her arms and said sternly, “Alright, if it’s ideas you want, it’s ideas you’ll get. If you have the power to smash a shooting star to pieces, you certainly have the power to catch one and drop it in the neighboring ocean behind you. You could break it up little by little and flush the pieces down that lovely toilet of yours. You could even have it as a snack if you wanted to. I’m sure whatever’s rotting in that gut of yours isn’t going to be too badly affected if you ate a giant flaming star.” She paced back and forth with her hand propped on her chin. “Let’s see, you can throw it in the sky and then break it up. You can…you know what? Literally anything else would be better than you scattering the pieces across the land with your reckless ways. Anything!”

Atlas gazed up at the shooting star and noticed that it grew once more. The scorching flames caused a few beads of sweat to trickle down his hairline. Rachel tapped her foot impatiently and said, “Well? We don’t have much time. What’s it going to be, big boy?” The remark caused the dragon giant to scoop her up in one hand and squeeze her already thin body into the width of a toothpick. No matter how pathetically she screamed or how many crunching sounds her body made, Atlas refused to take pity on her.

“Unlike all the filth swirling at the bottom of my tower,” he shouted. “I don’t give two shits about the other villages! They’re the ones who couldn’t accept me to begin with! They’re the bastards who laugh and throw stones at me whenever I show my face! You think my life is just one big fucking joke?! You think I choose to sit here on a giant fucking toilet?! That was the king’s idea! That’s what he calls comedy! I don’t feel one bit sorry for those pieces of dog shit! They’ll get what’s coming to them in short order!”

A tropical storm of sweat trickled down Rachel’s face as she felt the shooting star hurling closer to the tower. “Wait!” she squeaked, prompting Atlas to loosen his grip around her body. “If you put an end to this disaster, you just might be a hero to those people! Nobody would even think to treat a hero that way!”

“Hero?! You think these fucking people deserve a hero?!” roared Atlas while shaking Rachel in his fist. “Their idea of a hero is some rich snob who flaunts his money around without giving a drop of it to the poor! Apparently, those kind of fools work harder than the poor, or so I’m told! You, Rachel…you represent all of those people! All of those monsters! They don’t deserve shit!”

“I don’t represent anybody who casts judgment on others! I represent the innocent ones who will bear the brunt of your reckless ways!” squealed Rachel, who squirmed and struggled until at least her arms were free from Atlas’s grasp. “You’re painting my society with a broad brush, my friend! There are good and evil people from all walks of life! People should be evaluated as individuals, not as groups! If you’re too blind to see that, then you’re no different from the evil ones you claim are bullying you!”

Atlas peered up at the shooting star and then back at Rachel several times while contemplating everything the elf told him. The diminutive rogue took this time to catch her breath and collect her cracked bones. Even with sore ribs, she managed to burst out, “Hurry up and make your decision! That star’s getting closer!”

“You don’t have to rush me, you stupid bitch,” snarled Atlas. “I’ve already made up my mind.” His own eyes resembled shooting stars as they blinded Rachel with a hateful gaze. He could feel the elf quiver and vibrate in his massive lizard hand. He then grinned evilly at her and dropped her in the toilet. “Down you go with the rest of the shit!” he snapped before pulling the handle and watching her swirl.

Except the rogue didn’t swirl. She clung onto the side of the bowl with another grappling hook rope, the blades igniting little sparks as they struggled to keep her still. The swirling brown water dragged Rachel across the bowl while she kicked her legs and held on with a death grip around the rope. Adrenaline flowed even hotter through her veins when she heard Atlas laughing about this whole incident. She kicked harder and held on tighter. And then, the rope snapped like a twig and she was destined to spend eternity in a shit-covered hell.

As she swam through the toilet water whilst ignoring her injuries, she could hear Atlas’s monster laugh morph into a prolonged, “No!” followed by an explosion, a burst of fiery light, and crunching bones of his own. The Tower of Venom bottomed out from underneath Rachel and she went on a tidal wave ride throughout the land. She struggled to keep her head above the shitty current, but eventually sank beneath and swallowed the most vile substance ever to exist. Between heaving for oxygen and vomiting at the same time, Rachel’s lungs felt like she had swallowed the shooting star herself. The current jostled her around like a rag doll, giving her more bumps and bruises along the way. When she was ready to pass out, she landed with a thud.

Except that thud was cushioned by several bales of hay and the tidal wave of shit and piss had crashed upon the land below. Rachel coughed, gagged, and breathed heavily all in the span of a few seconds. Her ribcage ached as though someone fired a cannonball into her gut. Her legs couldn’t carry the weight of sickness and crumbled underneath her when she tried to stand. When she caught most of her breath back, she wiped the sludge away from her eyes and ears long enough to see what just happened.

Atlas’s gargantuan body laid strewn across a wheat field with the shooting star crumbled on top of his broken bones, shredded skin, and bloody organs. Instead of celebrating a staved off apocalypse, nearby farmers in overalls and straw hats laughed their asses off because of the literal shit storm that followed.

Rachel’s brows furrowed together and her teeth clamped down hard in anger despite the taste in her mouth. The villagers’ attitudes left a worst taste in her mouth than anything from the Tower of Venom ever could. Atlas had been right this whole time. The whole world did think he was a freak. While his mannerisms could have used some work, his spirit was in the right place. All of that mind-numbing, soul-crushing torment broke his heart like it would have someone a fraction of his size. Even the biggest and the baddest had feelings too, unlike the pigs who mocked his death.

Rachel slowly drew a knife from her sheath and jumped to her feet, her raging adrenaline allowing her to ignore the pain delving into her body. “Hey!” she shouted at the farmers, who now began trembling in fear and backing up carefully. Trembling herself (but for a different reason), Rachel angrily whispered, “If Atlas Venom was alive right now, he’d say…you’re welcome!”

Physical Fitness

***PHYSICAL FITNESS***

This coming January, my family and I are going to renew our memberships at the YMCA and exercise there on a regular basis. It’s that time again. It’s time for me to get my big ass back in shape. I’ve seen pictures of myself in the past where I look fantastic and then compare them to how I currently look in the mirror. It’s not a good feeling. What makes me feel better about my weight loss quests is that I’ve been a skinny man before and I can sure as hell do it again. But here’s where it gets tricky: weight loss has always been a back and forth battle for me. I’d make a plan, I’d stick to it, and I’d lose a lot of weight. Then I deviate from the plan just slightly and my weight spirals out of control once again. It’s a cycle I’m eventually going to have to break, but it can’t be done without people supporting me, which means no offers for fast food or ice cream and a staunch commitment to exercise every day despite tiredness.

The other part of this equation is my rebellious attitude towards the weight loss quest. I keep thinking that I have to do these ultra-hard exercises like Cross Fit or hour-long running or else I’m not going to lose any weight. I know for sure that’s not necessarily true, but I keep having scenarios play out in my head exactly like that. I’m not athletically minded by any stretch of the imagination. If I do any super-tough exercises, I’ll tire out within ten seconds tops. I don’t have it in me to ignore my tiredness, so I quit right away. I don’t want to be an athlete who plays sports. I just want to be healthy. Athletes have to do torturous things to their bodies just to maintain their energy. As an autism patient with increased sensitivity to stimuli, I feel the pain of intense exercise tenfold what a normal person feels.

To my way of thinking, physical fitness should come in the form of a handout. I know that’s not entirely realistic, but working that hard to achieve a smaller belly doesn’t appeal to me. But I also know that weight loss gimmicks like fat burning pills and surgery have dangerous side effects that overshadow any tiredness I feel from an intense workout. Here’s the truth: there are no handouts when it comes to physical fitness. If there were, America wouldn’t be the obese country that it is today.

While my plan for physical fitness isn’t in the form of shortcuts nor is it the ninth circle of hell, I do intend to find middle ground between the two. Thus, we have water walking, something I’ve done in the past with a lot of success. I get in the lap pool, run one way, and high-knee march the other. Fighting against water resistance is hard work and will get me the cardio I need. What makes it doable is the warmth of the water and how soothing it is to my joints. Because of this, I don’t actually feel the aches and pains of exercising until after I get out of the pool, which is when I’ve been walking for a whole hour. As the months go by and I start to weigh less, it’ll become two hours. And then three.

I was hesitant about this plan at first because I was rebelling against the idea that my heavy body was compromising my health. Every time I was told that I could have a heart attack or that harder exercises and a kale diet were the answer, I felt like I was being insulted. Insulting me doesn’t motivate me to work harder. It makes me resent the one doing the insulting. When my feelings and individuality are both considered, however, then that’s when exercising and dieting become more natural to me.

In January, the road to physical fitness begins once again. And once I’m on that road, I want to stay on it indefinitely. One slight detour could result in the world’s biggest fiery crash. That means no more ice cream, no more convenience store food, and the only fast food I’m going to agree to eat is from Subway. I’m all onboard with a plan like this. All I need is for people to come through for me and support me in this plan one-hundred-percent. I want to wear smaller clothes. I want to fit into whatever chair I’m sitting on. I want to do basic things without being winded right away. I want to live to be a hundred and look back on life with no regrets. I’m ready. Is everyone else?

　

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

DANTE: My mom told me a story one time that when I was three, my potty lid was closed. So instead of opening it, I shit my pants.

RANDAL: Lovely story.

DANTE: Look, the point is, I’m not the kind of person who disrupts things just so I can shit comfortably.

-Clerks-