A perfect metaphor. Childhood/adulthood. And a dog. I don't know who the photographer is, but wow.
I met the new CEO of the factory yesterday. She looked at me with the same eyes as did the old one. Not a problem. I'll just float like a butterfly like Mohamed Ali. I make my best impression when I'm not there.
But if you have to be somewhere, you can't go wrong imitating Alfred E. Neuman.
The weekend is nye. It seems like a good idea, but who knows? It could turn out like last weekend or the one before that or the one before that. Or. . . I could take a day trip somewhere. That my sound lame to the likes of you, dear reader, but it would be a monumental undertaking for me. There are towns within striking distance that would offer up something. Or the beach. Oh, my, though, so much to worry about. Homebound is so much easier. You just sit in a room with the lights out and the t.v. on and worry that you have pissed away your life.
That kind of talk might just get me out of the house. My mother's house. I don't know mine anymore.
On a positive note, I went to spin last night. It was easier than the first time but still hard. I pooped out a few times. Everyone else seemed fine. I am hoping to reach the fitness level of those mostly overweight men and women. My heart was pumping and I was sweating and my mind was fighting to deal with the strain. Yes, before you know it, I'll be ready for Lance Armstrong, that cheater. But I do feel fit--or fitter--this morning. My plan is to keep spinning and slow down on the drinking until I am barely drinking at all. Once I have a thirty inch waist and bulging thigh muscles, I'll have reached my goal.
You have to have goals if you want to win. Or lose. Or anything in between.
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