Sweating It Out
When I lived in New York City a couple years ago I had no friends and no cable, so I went to the gym. I spent roughly twelve hours a week at the gym for eight months. I hardly lost any inches off my waist line because I had a nightly three-way with two cute and lovable guys named Ben and Jerry. Every night I ate an entire pint of ice cream for dinner. Some nights that may or may not have been followed by cake frosting directly from the container.
That year was the worst of my depressive spells. It had nothing to do with the city, oh hell no. If the city were a man I’d be all kissy-kissy on him. It was miserable because I was in over my head. I had finished college and went off to the dream internship in Manhattan. I thought I was the shiiit.
I was so full of hope. It might have been cute if I were ten years younger and wore a bedazzled baby-t that said DUMBASS.
