I complained to Rob about this already, and now it’s your turn because you are my bestest friend. I warn you, it’s about the gym again. Perhaps you are noticing a pattern in my topics, but I can’t help it because I spend six hours a week at the gym and only point one two five minutes doing anything interesting. When I have to use the gym to parlay into the Loch Ness Monster, you know there’s something wrong.

But here is my complaint. When I’m at the gym, I sometimes notice what other people can lift on the same machines I use (I’m not just looking at their glutes). Anyway, there are all these guys who are built much better than I am lifting MUCH LESS than I can. On one particular exercise, a guy yesterday was struggling to lift just over half of what I do.

This is not me bragging, this is me cursing the universe because it is SO not fair. I work like a dog and still look hideous, and there are all of these hot guys flitting from machine to machine, doing half the work and getting twice the results. Rob says this is because I’m “wiry,” which is a nicey-nicey way of saying “evil skellington with super strength and not one discernable bicep.”

All right, so I’m wiry. And you know what goes through wires? Electricity! And you know what that means? I totally need to get a tattoo. I promised myself I would get one after a year of regular gym attendance, which will be up in April. I had thought of cheating and getting one for my twenty-fifth birthday this past December, but that came right after missing seven weeks at the gym due to impending death via a lung infection that mysteriously cleared up, so I couldn’t justify it then, but I can now. But I don’t know what to get, or where to get it, and also my foot hurts. And also, I'm hungry. You'd think my bestest friend would have brought me dinner by now.