Don't Use My Gym If You're Injured Or Constipated.

If I were to ever let this blog digress into a whiny, moany whinge-fest - it'd be no different from 99.9% of the rest of them. Most blogs are fucking horrible. And it's no accident that most blogs also involve a droll sadsack with the personality of a meadow cricket sharing their long laundry list of why they rule and the rest of humanity 'just doesn't get it'. Chirp, chirp, chirp.

Rhetorical questions ("Why does my boss always ask me to do something right as I'm about to leave work?!") always seem to punctuate the mess at every given turn. And as much as I yearn to reply "because they want to wrong-hole you in the copier room after everyone else leaves", I refrain - as that would denote interest and truthfully I wouldn't piss on them were they on fire. So I try to keep the uninteresting, psuedo-intellectual rambling to a minimum. Better allowing me to make fun of those that do not. I then, in the process, become guilty of it myself. But I add lots of pretty pictures and people keep reading me anyway.

But someone left a band-aid in the shower at my gym today, and my aforementioned attempt at whinge-restraint has just come to a shrieking halt. You filthy bastard. You uncouth heathen fucktard. Here's the worst part: It wasn't swirling around in the drain as you'd expect. No - it had been placed neatly in a groove at my eye level where the tile ends and the normal wall begins. And as I stood there shaking my head in disbelief, the "guy-who-never-actually-uses-the-gym-but-works-on-the-same-floor-and-just-comes-in-to-take-craps" arrived. Usually leisurely, my remaining time toweling off and getting dressed then became about as enjoyable as shovelling out a month old, newly discovered bathtub crime scene in July.

Where am I going with this? Quite crazy.