I tried to find songs to add to my iPod to work out to, but I don’t even own an iPod because I am pretty sure the government uses them to track fat people.

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OK, so you know what’s hard?

Catching semen in a cup.

You know what’s harder?

Getting the semen to come out in the first place.

I mean, there are restrictions about, like, preserving the sterility of the sperm…I don’t know, it was fucking insane.

I would go into more detail, but then my dad would vomit and fire me off a nasty email about how I am making my grandma’s soul die.

Let’s just say, you can’t use your mouth, and I haven’t been able to lift anything with my right arm for two days.

I mean, who’s too out of shape for a hand job (read: fucking, me.)?

So, when I woke up this morning and couldn’t successfully open the Nutella jar because my husband’s wiener destroyed my biceps, I knew I finally had to head on over to the gym I joined two weeks ago, but never actually went to.

Side note: Looking for motivation to join a gym?  Put on your favorite outfit, the one you think you look so super hot in, and then have your husband take a picture of you from the back.  Pull the picture up on the biggest monitor you have, think for a second it must just have been a weird angle, admit to yourself it wasn’t and that you totally really look like Hagrid from the back, go into the bathroom, have a good cry, then join a gym.  You’re welcome.

So, the gym.

Yes.

First of all, the only reason I even joined this particular gym is because A. It’s located in a rehab center, so I would be the hottest one there amongst the handicapped and those grossly maimed from some horrific accident. And, 2. because they served the good kind of bagels.

So, today, the day I had to put a jar of Nutella back on the shelf because I wasn’t physically recovered enough from some masturbatory antics two days ago, was the day I knew I  had to grab my tennis shoes and a maxi pad, and head to the gym.

So I did.

And I totally had a plan.

Run in, do the elliptical for 30ish minutes, avoid any exercise equipment that faces a gigantic wall mirror, grab a bagel and go.

But, noooooo.

Along with my ungodly monthly fee, comes a complimentary consult with a real life personal trainer, who plans to weigh me, check my body mass, and circle my masses of fat with a thick black sharpie before I rip her beating heart from her chest, wrap it in bacon and eat it.

It’s as unpleasant as it sounds.

I was all, you know what, I am just here to dick around on equipment a bit, I don’t need the evaluation, and she was all, but it’s free, but in this totally bitchy tone, that, like, only women who can wear sports bras as shirts use.  So, I was like, listen, I don’t want to be weighed and poked at, and she’s like, oh whatever, you’re fine, you just had a baby, no expects you to be skinny…and then I ate her face off.

Ugh.

So, I got on the scale, and I swear to God her eyes got wide, and I was all, um…I have two bras on and a roll of quarters in each shoe, and my shorts are a heavy cotton, plus I’m breast feeding, so my boobs are full of, like, 6-10 pounds of milk.

And she’s like, do you want me to come up with a nutrition guide to help you lose weight, and I was like, does it include Pepsi and twice baked potatoes? And, she laughs and is all, um…no.  So I was like, then….no.

Then I farted in her office, shut the door, got on the elliptical for 30ish minutes, grabbed a bagel and drove home.

And, I totally feel skinnier already!