I am officially a wuss.
A puss.
In my effort to lose fat accumulated from excess frivolity and happiness with my man, I did 8 jumping squats and almost died. Using explosive force equal to the trajectory of goo a squeezed pimple shoots out, I embarassed myself in front of the mirror to appear like a jumping dog in a "funniest animals home videos" segment on non-primetime television. This was after a good 10 minutes of (yes, AGAIN) jumping on the rebounder and with the rope (although its more like a plastic whip, from the marks on my legs) along with Justin Timberlake's "sexy back", in a ambivalent hope of getting my own sexy back.
My motivation is only hindered by my body's counter-intuitive recalcitrance to exercise. I did interval training, weights, stretches, yoga, boxing, skipping, and as a last resort - the famed jumping squat - with a seemingly lost of respect for myself, but unfortunately, no similar loss of fat as desired; as the kindly weighing machine flashes the same number as a mockery to my physique and grossly starving ego.
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