I’m gonna hurl.

411: In the basement with Mosi, pushing weight.

Listening to: The sound of the dehumidifier cleaning the air of my perspiration.

I have to puke.

I’m not kidding. And I don’t think I could lift my arms to save my life. Like if a burning log fell on my leg and pinned me. Even if it was two pounds, I think I’d probably sit there and watch my pants incinerate. Of course I’d be screaming, but that doesn’t require lifting, so that’s cool.

This is exactly what I wanted.

Once my weight room was built, I called my old trainer, Mosi. Mosi’s an amazing guy. Apart from having a great love of sushi, he’s a great motivator and the nicest human being I’ve ever met. If we all had some sort of inner light, Mosi’s would be a Bat Signal. I’ve been with him for about eighteen months, and I always see better results working out with him.

I had been working out by myself, but hadn’t yet really broke into the old sweat that you’ve gotta have to feel like you’ve accomplished something. So Mosi comes over and re-arranges my workout. Makes me swing a pair boxing gloves until I couldn’t lift my arms. Then makes me lift.

Knew I shouldn’t have had that second cigar last night after dinner. I’m wondering just how I’m going to dress myself when he tells me we’re done.

And I’m going to have to steer the motorcycle with my feet on the way to work.