Day it doesn't matter anymore

   My space pod was late. I shuffled quickly from the house when I heard the familiar rumblings of my intergalactic transport pod exiting the space-time flux and stop outside my gate. I ran out, pudgy in my massive black jacket and flailing three hundred bags with me, and seated myself with a quick hello to the driver. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes because I was massively fucking tired from no sleep the previous night because the glare of re-entering the worm-hole that would lead to our destination blinds me looking out the pod-windows.

   The capacitors start up again as we build speed, and the g-force flattens me slightly against the back of the seat. Man, space and time travel gives me such motion sickness. I'm hungry too, having skipped breakfast, and I'm acutely aware of the bloody McDonald's Restaurant At The End Of The Universe as we pass it on our regular route.
   What with the wormhole allowing us to bypass the usual super-highway, we get there in merely three quarters of an hour, as opposed to the deep-freeze stasis over two decades it would take us even on normal hyperdrive. When we get there, all I can think is that I could have used at least another fortnight to rest my eyes before pulling back out of the flux and land at work.

   So, bad news, sort of. The Lipidsana experiment has been canned. There are a great many reasons for this, but one that kind of matters is the fact that it wasn't working for me. This may be because my body is bloody stubborn and refuses to respond to scientific stimuli like any normal body would- I couldn't tell you why. I picked up about 4kgs since starting, and two days after I stopped taking it I've lost that again. I shan't stop my ever gallant attempt to lose weight in the face of a horrifying physiology, and I shall certainly keep writing crap here and making you people read it. I intend to switch to riding a real, physical bike up and down the streets for exercise instead of a still-standing machines that tantalisingly pretend movement. I'll update my new revised battle-plan as I think it up, to be honest. Perhaps I'll just end up lovably chubby by the end of all this, who knows.
    I also think that removing my well-stocked self from the slightly creepy gym environment will allow me to bust a move when and wherever I choose, which I'm fully of the belief must be much healthier for my heart. Goddamn, when was suppressing your smooth moves to Son of a Preacher man ever good for your constitution? I make no excuse for my technically terrible but perversely satisfying popping-and-locking, my good people.

   I've had a new mission this last week, however: learn two whistle with two fingers! I feel like adding a few more exclamation points in there to emphasize exactly how epically awesome that would be. I'm refraining out of the knowledge passed on to me by the great Terry Pratchett that the more exclamation points you tack on to the end of your sentiment, the further past the sanity border you've paddled. The quest started slow, with naught but great gobs of errant spit all across goddamn everything to show for my diligence. Slowly and pleasingly, something like a whistle started to emerge, and almost immediately my cats suspected foul play. Turkish was brave enough to climb all the way up the slope of my front to bite my fingers in the hope of MAKING IT STOP.
   I have been driving all the lovely people in my home insane as I walk down the hall whistling like a leaky air mattress, increasingly proud and irritating as my progress progressed. Now, I can almost always consistently produce a low-volume whistle after several tries and repositioning my fingers multiple times. It's AWESOME. I suspect the intense satisfaction I feel at making the right sound must be akin to the feeling pianists must have when they can simply hit piano keys and produce the exact tune they have in their head. (As opposed to poking at the poor instrument over and over again and managing only to recreate the first three notes of chopsticks with any regularity.)
   My dad just rushed into the room, insisting he heard me practising my whistling, only to realize it was an actual bird singing outside. This is the absolute apex of my musical whistling career.

   I'll start thinking of some new features, maybe I'll source some low-fat recipes or review my bad habit of reality food shows. Certainly I won't be shying away from sticking in as many pictures of my cats and references to Stephen Fry as is humanly possible. I'm nothing if not comfortingly predictable.