My body is so sore as I sit down to type this, it’s not even funny.
You might have been wondering why the man behind all of this has been so silent of late. Maybe something major came up, maybe something went wrong. Well, not to fear; it’s nothing major, I’ve just been too sore to type.
You see, I wasn’t kidding when I said that I “wanted to get a personal-trainer-person in my life tomorrow; as in tomorrow.”
We’re just going to call her… Piquant. Yes, that works well; she’s strong and stinging, but in a stimulating sort of way.
I’ve spent another couple of hours with her and she’s busy pushing me trying to figure out where I stand. Briefly, my upper body flexibility is phenomenal (the best the system has ever seen!), my upper body strength is abysmal (the worst the system has ever seen?), my cardiovascular capacity and lower body strength are very good (guess who was repeatedly lifting 340 lb, with his puny legs!), my body fat-to-muscle-mass-ratio is boderline alarming (think Homer Simpson and failing “the jiggle test”).
I just walked up to her with this big bag of money and said, “I’m broken, fix me.” (Yeah, just like that.) And Piquant’s been using information she’s gathered about me to figure out how to nudge me toward my goals. Where, by “nudge,” I mean “yell crudely (only as crudely as she can given her cute voice, of course) in an attempt to shame me.” And by “goals,” I mean the capacity to carry a reasonably-sized girlfriend—to bed.