The Boot Camp

I want to get fit but getting a lipo is faster.

Living in Montreal is not easy. One gets 7 months of misery winter wonderland, 4.5 months of rain, and 2 weeks of sunny days. Mind you that these 2 weeks are cumulative, as sunny days only happen on Mondays and Tuesdays when I’m fucking stuck in the office looking through the window. If I’m really attentive I can see the best days of my life passing me by. It’s kind of poetic when one thinks about it.

So of course, one has to go fucking crazy in these rare moments of climate bliss. Craziness starts with not wearing any sunscreen because all you really want is to get all that vitamin Dick in you. I mean, I guess melanoma is not that exciting but at the very least it’s a sign that you had a wonderful tanning session. But, hey, you do you, I do me.

Another major component of our 2-week long summer is being with friends, going to the park, drinking some booze, smoking some weed, talking shit about that friend who wasn’t invited had other plans, etc. Clearly this is where the shit hit the fan because I literally have no friends. I only have a fat cat which I honestly could live without.

I decided that the best way to take advantage of summer without any of the above was to join a boot camp, because I could train with like-minded individuals who also wanted to improve themselves in a friendly, healthy, supportive environment. That, and I was also feeling suicidal and figured that the best way to die would be during push-ups.

Did I die, though? No I didn’t.

Did I wish I had? Every single moment the exercise lasted, and also the morning after when I was feeling sore even in places where no man has ever wandered before. And trust me, as someone who’s dating a beautiful man with a big dick heart, I know. I really know.

As if this were not enough, the trainer sat me down to discuss my goals in joining this boot camp. Wait, so you mean I am supposed to have goals? Was she also going to ask me where I saw myself in 10 years from then? This whole conversation was darker than what lies between Whoopi Goldberg’s thighs.

Her: So, what are your goals?
Me: Well, I honestly just wanted to work out with people.
Her: Oh, that’s sweet! But don’t you want to lose weight?
Me: Say what, bitch? Do I need to lose weight?
Her: …
Me: I mean, OK? Maybe 3 pounds?
Her: Why don’t we go for 7 instead?

This bitch collected my soul right there and then.

That’s how I signed up for the boot camp. And if anyone thinks that was my biggest mistake to date, wait until you here about my actually going to it. That one was even worse.

PS. The weather is not the only thing that sucks in Montreal, they also speak terrible French.

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