sometimes i open the easternmost window in my room, recline as far as i can in my black desk chair, inhale the rejuvenating autumn air and smile at the ceiling as i listen to the soothing onomatopoeia of a distant, midnight freighter rhythmically clanking weathered yet aesthetically appealing tracks.
im beginning to understand why people tend to become more and more satisfied with life as decades, years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, milliseconds, picoseconds and femtoseconds march toward their inevitability.
yeah, i wish i could sleep a few more hours every day. sometimes my back doesnt want to cooperate with the rest of my body. i wish my wallet was a quarter-inch thicker. im weary of listening to people complain about overripe kiwi. id like to hear a few less blaring horns while im on the road.
but hey, most people in the world would snicker at such a list and offer to exchange their bag of woes in a new york minute.
so i smile.
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ive long since attained the majority of my lifting goals save one; try as it might, i dont think my deoxyribonucleic acid knows how to write that script.
thats just the way it is.
i could cheat and take a ride on the anabolic whipsaw but it just aint my fucking style to do so.
so i wont.
instead, ive set my sights on the a.p.a.'s strict curl record in the submaster's 220 pound weight class; a gentleman by the name of mike peters currently holds the drug-tested record at 185 pounds.
if i can stay healthy for another two years that record will fall.
this ones for you, jamrock:
when the judge yells "rack" youll see the horns through the ethereal haze of triumphant chalk dust.
time to earn a place in the ledger.
