... I would have a well-honed killing machine body with tight abs and thighs of steel. I would do it for the glory and would work out ten... no 20 times a week with my personal trainer who would be named Sven. (He would have capped teeth giving him a strangely luminescent and zombie-like smile.) Together we would strive for perfection of the female form: tight but not too muscled, feminine but not too curvy. He would put me on a macrobiotic diet and I would forever forfeit the joys that are excellent cheese, pastry, red meat and all fruits of the nightshade family. This would appeal to the psychological damage I have from reading too much Calvin when I was a teenager. I would get to feel like a martyr in contrast to my heady narcissism of my perfect form. As a result of my conflicted and tormented soul, I would write works of unparalleled struggle and navel gazing absorption. (Because of my workouts, my navel would be a thing a beauty. I would show it at every possible opportunity. People would marvel. And even take pictures that would become framed in galleries all around the world.) My strength of purpose would result in my having a guru-like status, if only in my own mind, since I would write self-help books that gave heart to the weakest of souls but would evoke scorn from those with even a shade of a sense of humor. And this scorn would be deserved.

I feel better now. Thanks. (written in a moment of self-loathing over a. my aging body and b. my inability to give up things i love... like food c. frustrated with inability to sell-out even if it payed -- yeah. pretty silly.)

Labels: of course that isn't me