A State of Soredom

When you exercise, something happens to your body. Namely, you suffer in unimaginable ways for the sake of being slender and slim, buff and brawny, or trim and tiny. You give up your food, you give up your need to down an entire place of cheese fries within ten minutes . . . make that five . . . and you also assign a time every day in which you perform the following:

- PAINFUL exercises
- HEARTRENDING exercises
- BONEJARRING exercises
- Water break
- AGONIZING exercises

Alright, it isn't all that bad, but here is the problem we all face. While the workout may be promising and lovely and there's that prize at the end of the tunnel (far end, mind you), there is always the next morning in which you open your eyes, smile at the sunshine, and suddenly realize - after you've tried to leap from the bed like Tom Cavanaugh in his short lived 2006 tv series - that you are so sore and pained that you won't be moving.

Not today, buster. Or sister.

What the heck is a buster? Is that some form of brother? Or is that someone who actually busts things and is called that. Shouldn't they be called a wrecker then? Or a smasher?

No, not the point here.

I am in pain. I am happy for it, as it means I'm working hard, but the muscles I forgot have come back to haunt me. They protest, they scream.

I therefore douse them in this little bottle of alcohol-stuff that you dab on sore muscles. The results is that the pain alleviates, but the body stinks like you've dived head-first into a vat of turpentine. Now, that's a pretty image.

Think of it: have you ever had an amazing workout one day, felt new and affirmed on life and on yourself, and then woken up the next morning in a state that guaranteed you would feel those glutes for the rest of the day?

I'm in that. Care to join me? After all, while misery may love company, so, decidedly, do those of us that still need to work out.

My Own Personal Cell . . . Phone

I don't like cell phones. I loathe them, to be quite frank. As opposed to being Larry or Bob, I'll be Frank.

That was a joke. Laugh. Or don't, just get it.

A cell phone is a piece of technological hoo-hah (and I have no idea what hoo-hah is, but it sounds full of contempt so it sounds perfect) that allows people to contact you at any moment of the day, at any place, in any situation. If you are falling off a mountain, the GPS chip will track you across the globe, whereas if you even attempt to listen to a song on the radio, your cell phone will suddenly get jealous and burst forth in song.

Because, yeah, it can play music too.

It can also take pictures. Record video. Email people. Surf the web. Fire a proton laser beam.

And I want it to do none of these things.

When I had to trade in my old phone as it had finally expired on the plan, I was told that I was to get something new and fresh. The smiling men, clasping their fingers together and chuckling, insisted that I choose something expensive and unnecessary.

My criteria:
- thin
- good price
- makes phone calls
- that's it

Their criteria, which they informed me of the moment I said all this and after they stopped laughing hysterically:
- covered in a sold-separately leather case
- has the ability to download music
- carries all the film equipment of a major Hollywood film production studio
- will ring incessantly and loudly
- did I mention expensive?

So, I have a phone. I have a ball and chain, and it costs more than my monthly rent. It costs and it costs me arms, legs, ribs, and my health.

I have with me a phone with several features I do not use. For instance, I don't take pictures with it, listen to music on it, and I don't use the email. Which defeats the purpose of this phone as all I wanted it for was to make phone calls, but I guess I lost.

I have a cell phone. And it does practically everything but what it should do: make calls.

The Virus-Like-Thingy

At school, I was safe. Whenever my computer was near, I was connected to the world. And then, when that computer got struck down by some unexpected virus-like-thing, I was covered. I merely had to get up, walk across the campus in whatever weather Mother Nature had provided for me on that day, and say the following to the geniuses at the laptop central office:

HELP ME! HELP ME! DON'T YOU REALIZE HOW HELPLESS I AM NOW? CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE HOW UTTERLY POWERLESS I'VE BECOME??? DO SOMETHING!

And they would, in a flash, fix the problem.

Really, there would be a flash. I'd blink because of this bright light and then my laptop woul dbe as good as new. The internet would be repaired and everything would be perfectly fine.

No longer.

Here, in my summer house, I have no laptop central nearby. I also have no convenient flashing light to repair things. And at the moment, I have a problem.

I have a virus.
Or something like a virus.
Or a thing that is like a virus.

I can't access some sites, and the moment I try, I am logged out. I am frustrated and upset and I work hard to find any possibly clues to the source, but cannot prevail. And the harder I try, the more the virus seems pleased with me and is content to laugh at my futile attempts.

I mean this too. I heard it chuckling not moments ago.