Self-hatred

First, let me say that return-receipt reg­is­tered mail to Iran is real expen­sive. But I’m glad that I can do that at all with a coun­try with whom the US has no diplo­mat­ic rela­tions. Almost all my inter­na­tion­al mail in the last eigh­teen months has just been lost in the void or tak­en upwards of six months to arrive. But as soon as I start­ed using reg­is­tered mail, which is sup­posed to be slow­er, they start­ed show­ing up in 5 or 6 days.

I think John Ashcroft is behind it all.

Any­how, M. showed com­plete dis­in­ter­est in talk­ing to me today. I need to go pun­ish myself at the gym. She’s the only one I’m not super­cyn­i­cal about. Which means I’ve entered the realm of delu­sion. Plus I’m get­ting fat. I must go seek sports injuries. If I can lift so much weight that my dias­tolic blood pres­sure shoots up so high that I have an aneurysm and die tonight, it will have been a good night. Of course, sta­tis­ti­cal­ly I’m more like­ly to die from a heart attack on the tread­mill doing car­dio. Some­how that seems like a lame-ass way to die.

So a new mantra for the gym (past ones have includ­ed “sur­gi­cal­ly enhanced for opti­mum per­for­mance”, “build­ing the body she can’t have”, and “pain is my bitch”) is:

TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE.

AT THE GYM.

(upstairs please)