That’s me finished work and in the gym on the machineries of suffering. Today’s endorphine-frenzy is brought to you by the number *rocket from the crypt* and the colour *scream dracula, scream*.
I’m writing this on the cycle. Normally, I’d be on twatter and faceboak, rubbing my sarcasm in people’s eyes like nanook with two handfuls of yellow snow.
(That’s ‘scream dracula, scream’ finished. Time to put on ‘phenomenon’ again.) This place has radio, permanently broadcasting forth FM: as the proper music died away, the bastards were playing that daft punk atrocity. No, no, a thousand times, no!
In other news, it’s strange being owned by Someone who lives at the other side of the country. We don’t see each other for between three and twenty sleeps at a time, so when we do get close, we tend to make the (quality) time count. We don’t have a surplus of time to argue about money or politics (and anyway, neither of us believe in the former and we agree – broadly – on the latter.)
Going long periods without a savage beating means I have to arrange my endorphins from elsewhere and the gym’s a pretty good place to do just that. With the added humiliation of being both surrounded – and dwarfed – by all the prison-muscled guys with the playground/after lights out tattoos!
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