We’ve been through a lot together; marathons, puberty… some other stuff too…
But after last night?
If I could turn my back on- well, turn my back on my body, I would.
Sadly, we’re stuck together.
But after the pure concentrated evil that came out of my back end this morning?
Don’t think I’m too happy with you. Cuz I’m not.
I’ve been working out, like, hard. For a month.
What do I hafta show for it?
A bizarre craving for Funyons (which may or may not be related…) and a lot of attention from creepy old dudes at work (that could be the bartending shirtless thing, but how else am I supposed to make tips?!?) and a whole lotta nothin’.
I mean, why do I even bother to work out? What, to be healthy and live longer? Ew, who wants that…
So here’s my solution, since you clearly don’t feel like listening to me and I don’t feel much like respecting you lately; just stay outta my way.
It’ll be hard at first since, ya know, we’re stuck with the same body and all, but we’re both grown men… or, at least we’re both the same grown man… I’m confused where I was going with this… thanks a lot, brain! You’re makin’ your way onto my shit list next…
Look, I know you’re gross. I mean, just think about poop for God’s sake.
It’s just- well, lately there’s been an uptick in the gross department.
Let’s take inventory, shall we?
My right hand currently has pins holding it together.
My left hand isn’t much better, with a fingernail caked in blood beneath the nail.
My ankle clicks when I run for too long.
Oh, and now I’m starting to peel, but only on my right hand.
What the hell?!? I look like a goddamn lizard!
My pediatrician told me when I was young that if I took care of my body, my body would take care of me.
Yeah? Well, the deal’s off!
Consider the first can of Cheez WHiz the first strike! First casualty? My stomach.
Look, it’s clear you’ve got a mind of your own.
I mean, remember my first birthday when I just kinda stuck my hands down my pants?
Believe me, if I had the mental faculties to resist the urge, I woulda. Not a great moment to catch on home videos… Anyways, the point is, you guys clearly have your own agenda.
Or at least that’s what I like to think, mainly so I can blame somebody else for the things that I do.
Again, I get off topic, sorry. But it’s no coincidence that this is getting ramble-y and you use your fingers to type, is it?
The point is, fingers, it’s time for you to get in line. Shape up or ship out.
Well, not so much “ship out” considering I kinda need you guys…
I’m just saying, it’s high time you started listening to my brain.
For instance, that nagging thought in the back of my mind that says “don’t readjust your balls on a crowded el train”?
It might not be such a bad idea to listen to that next time, considering that old woman who saw you kinda thought you were making a lewd remark with that particular gesture.
Just sayin’, give it a thought.
See, I was always told that if I took care of you, you’d take care of me.
So I brush my teeth. I still got cavities.
So I run. I still got heel spurs.
So I abstain from fatty foods. I still got love handles.
In short… what the fuck, body?!?
I’m holding up my end of the bargain, so what the hell is your problem?
But ya know what? No more.
From now on, this means war.
I’ve come to ask for forgiveness.
I know putting you through a third (or was it fourth?) night of drinking in a row was pretty brutal, but you gotta understand something.
I’m in Ohio. What else is there to do?
Now I know that doesn’t make up for the restless nights and the seemingly endless flow of wine, beer, and even the occasional shot of vodka.
It’s unforgivable really.
But I couldn’t live with myself if you hated me.
No, literally, I would not be able to live without a liver.
So I beg you, don’t go and quit on me.
I swear I’ll start treating you with more respect… one of these days.