Day 10: Sing-Along-Blogs

   I do believe the weekend is unmistakably over. Yes, I feel that irresistible pull, the haunting allure of the unattainable mid-day nap. Last night was a no-sleep, lay-in-bed-constantly-rolling-over-onto-the-cat kind of a night, for the fates are cruel and bored. I shall call it Sunday Syndrome. Of course, the paradox is that whilst I and any rational thinking man upon this earth fears a Sunday with a spine-chilling devotion, I also tend to wish the days over 'till Sunday, as that is when my True Blood, Entourage and Leverage episodes air. It's but a small consolation.
   Food wise, doing rather fine, although drowning your bad mood in a glass of water has little of the punch of its cousin, 5 litres of ice-cream. Surprisingly though, gym is becoming more of a habit and less of a schlepp. I'm still randomly besieged by the urge to start acting out the physical choreography of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog when "Everyone's A Hero In Their Own Way" starts to play into my ears, though. To circumvent the boredom factor, I must throw my mind into the music that comes up on random from my playlist, but the down side of that is that people seeing me mouth the lyrics to myself think of me as the Very Special Gymmer by now. Ah, if they only knew how much worse it could be. *Jazzhands!*

 Pictured: Today.

   My doctor has advised me that I am allowed two half-fruits a day. Unless he means Elton John during the hetero-marriage years, I call that cruel. I cannay give up my Gordon Ramsay of a weekday evening, so you are already asking me to pretend I don't want the scallops he's making in some form of a butter sauce (even though I've never had a scallop in my life, and I generally don't like seafood. Thus is the nature of the BBC food channel.) Now sir, you ask me to pretend you didn't just R999.99 me? Two half-fruits is a fruit. Count it out and poke me if I'm wrong here, I've been known to stumble on basic arithmetic, but I'm coming to a total of one fruit. I'm going to have to start bringing a watermelon to work, aren't I?

   I did not post my vitalstatistix over the weekend, for one very good reason: my vanity can smack your vanity in the face and go "La, Sir." The space-pod at the gym tells me I've picked up *cough* amount of kilos, despite being of the simultaneous opinion that my fat percentage has gone down. I'm calling it a draw for now, until such a time as the bloody scale decides it is willing to be reasoned with like a normal household appliance. 

   It looks like Personal Trainer Ross Kemp might well be back on the scene, and failing that, it may be another, as yet unnamed trainer. Dude had little winged earrings in his ears, which I found somehow fascinating. Very messenger of the gods. I shall have to approximate myself a pair like that immediately. I'll be breaking out the hot glue and crafting supplies tonight, boyo. 

   Goodnight and goodluck duckies, I must go enjoy my orange. Perhaps I can fashion some kind of a napping hammock from orange peels and office supplies.