I mean, they don't have a blog!

My chess rating is rising.

I'm getting more impatient with Alan.

My pride is growing,

I remember people who would ignore me.

I'm starting to look better, (three car accidents I caused today*)

my fuckstick legs won't let me run more.

The cigarettes don't bother me.

I listen to Tool on the treadmill, Stinkfist,then Eulogy.

So I tried the bicycle machine, but left with contempt at the people using it.  They were using it to watch TV.  Look at you! I wanted to say to them, like Kramer.  I was watching Seinfeld.

I don't pay attention to the guys that look better than me—their haircuts ain't got no soul.  They watch MMA while they run.  Why don't they just go on Youtube?  People film other people getting knocked out on the street, and you can hear their laughs.

I watched a documentary on the Sugar Ray Leonard and Duran fight.  That was cool.  I didn't respect Duran after his post-victory speech.  He said he was more of a man than his opponent.  I get high and jerk off in motel rooms.  Mike Tyson was so animated talking about that fight.  I like Mike.  I've always liked Mike.  We're good friends.  He reads my blog.  I'm better than them because I prefer boxing—I don't care too much about boxing.

I look at the things I'm wont to do,

and I know it's not pride.

All those guys ever talk about is going to the gym!  And girls, and food, probably  fart, too.  Protein farts.  The gym smells.  I hate their haircuts and grey hipshit sweatpants.  Maybe I'll get one.  See how it looks on me.  

They all stare into their phones all the time—

I wonder if I'm trying to say boxing is more of an art than MMA, but mixed martial arts is an art too.  I don't get along with the people I imagine people are.  

The girls, too, they stare into their phones.  They're not checking my blog.  I ask them, they act like they don't know what the fuck I'm talking about.  I grab it from them, see what's so important—it's just a text, I say to her.  It's just a text, I repeat.  It's got no literary merit—you're ordering turkey without mayo.  That's not a poem!  I say to her.  Your turkey's not a poem.  Here, let me do your texts!

After my workout, I had a protein shake, and a Weight Watchers Turkey dinner.  About an hour later, I went to a diner and had a Thanksgiving dinner.  Alan texted me.  I got irritated, and figured he wants a cigarette.  I didn't want to eat with him. He's on a diet, but won't exercise.  He wants soup with nothing in it.  I don't know what the hell that means.  He can't explain.  He'll keep staring.  

After the meeting he said "What's next?" I told him curtly I'm going home.  He disappeared without saying anything and walked home in the cold.  I sat in my car for an hour.  I texted him if he wanted a ride, but I knew I could have just got him down the block.  He didn't respond.  I don't know how he thinks.  I don't know if I hurt him or he's using me.  I'm not mature enough to act like his older brother.  As long as I want to hang out, he'll stay with me.  

Sometimes I think he's an actor.

Sometimes I think he's like my addictions.

*A few people just honked,

and said, Keep it Up!

Some were with their families.

Their children waved at me.

You're my true addiction.  It's not fair.

Oh, well.  At least I leave you alone, sort of.  

Just don't laugh at me.

It displeases me.

anemia
hooker with a penis