Allow me to interpret: I'm in a bad mood. I got the blues, I'm down 'n out, not a whole lotta loving going on in my day. I had some bad news of a non-Lipidsana nature yesterday, and it has managed to throw my entire groove off. Seriously, I didn't even feel a twinge of an urge to bop or boogie or bust any sort of a move in gym today. It's fast becoming my favourite part of the day- it's not like it's massive massive exercise or anything, the trainer has been nixed once and for all now. It's really just down to moving a little bit everyday for the sake of a bit of fitness really, and somehow the empty repetition of physical movement seems to have become hypnotically enjoyable. However, today, the spirit of the inappropriate dance left me entirely, and instead each new song and rhythm seemed only to further enforce my terrible mood.
Yes, Kate Bush, I agree entirely, if only you could make that deal with God and swap places with whomsoever it is you're singing to, I believe the world would be a much shinier place. I feel the hopelessness and gravitas of your pop dilemma right with you, sister.
Indeed, Chevelle, you find yourself up against such mindless bureaucracy in this world, and you continue to fight the good fight despite all the demoralizing and frustrating powers that be. Yes brothers, I feel you deeply today.
I assure you, it would not have needed something as drastic bad news to crimp my funk. In all honesty, something as small and insignificant as BBC Lifestyle changing the timeslot of my daily Gordon Ramsay to some ridiculous hour without telling me could easily be the cause of this moodiness. Bad days do happen, regardless of any karma points one may have racked up when one allegedly passed up the opportunity to eat half a cheesecake house on Wednesday evening hypothetically. Ah, but I hear you say, simply take refuge in your fitness regime, the endorphins released are sure to give you something of a high as well as the unmistakable glow of a sweaty demon. I put it to you that a modest but sizeable Powerball winning will produce much the same, if not better, of a result. I would heartily welcome the opportunity to test this theory in practice.
But allow me digress from my eloquent whining for a moment. I had a haircut.
It's the one on the front left.
Then also: I have found my favourite pair of trousers that do not and have not fit for quite some time. It was such a sad loss, I could not bear to toss them simply for the folly of my waistline, so I've decided they shall be my barometer trousers. I shall measure my progress on the Lipidsana shakes not by the scale alone, but largely on merit of how much I have to hop around the room to get these trousers on.
They are deeply stylish in a way only fully knowable whilst in the 7th grade.
Current trouser status:
I shall periodically check and update the Trouserometer 2000. It conveys rather depressing content in a prime-colour, fun-tastic sort of a way, doesn't it?
The shakes are finding a home in my constitution. You can most certainly feel them taking effect in the morning, and while the first one of the day still induces weird science in my mid-section, my body seems to be adjusting to them. As an experiment, I did one this morning without checking the flavour on the packet- I was quite convinced of vanilla, only to discover strawberry. This is not to disparage the taste- they really are very decent tasting for health shakes, but I have been on many such a shake, and even the best of the best still present the problem of blue salad. By this I mean:
When I was about 10, it was my job to make the salad for a big family braai. I got a little carried away with the thrill of responsibility, and decided that for flair, I was going to add several drams of blue food dye to to the mayonnaise dressing. Somehow, even knowing that all it was was a little colouring, I could not bring myself to eat the damn blue salad, and I don't think very many other attendants finished theirs, either. This, my friends, is blue salad. Lipidsana is not fishy tasting and it really does bring to mind an actual milkshake, but in the end, there is neither strawberry or vanilla, but that thinking makes it so.
In order to go out on a high note, I leave you with the heartwarming image of my two cats vying for space on my not insubstantially sized lap.
The white one is Tesla, and the one obtusely parking on top of her is Turkish (named after Stephen Fry, obviously.) Look, you can keep the hypothetical, comically sized cheesecake. As long as my cats keep disregarding common sense and basic comfort in order to out do one another on my person, I don't need none of your stinking cheesecake.