The Meat Market

I am an ogre.

I am a fat bastard.

I am out of shape.

However, I am not a pretentious, shallow jerkoff who parades around in a cutoff Golds t-shirt, flexing my biceps brachii, latissimus dorsi, and clavicular pectoralis majora for the ladies. I am not a 27-point I.Q. lineman who has to grunt after every rep of my seated row, just so everyone in the gym can see how HARD I am working. I am not an annoying stickler who stands next to the hottest of all hotties on the elliptical, talking about the amazing catch I had in WSU intramural football last week. I am not a fake-n-baker.

I am not a 5'4" skimpy tattoo-adorned hoebag wearing merely a Q-tip, string of lace, and rubber band to show off my "hot bod".

I also do not have a vagina. For the record.

Douchebag seems to be the theme of the month, especially after what has happened this past week. And where I have been for the past three days, as I have begun the reconstruction process of my physical appearance, goes to show that this world has problems. Big ones. When people dedicate their lives solely for the purpose of stretching their musculus deltoideus in front of the mirror just so that everyone else can see how toned they are. We have issues.

I am a new years resolution. In a f***ed up world.