I ripped your heart out from your chest and relaced it with a grenade blast

New Year's resolutions are a curious business. Mine, of course, is to update this blog more often. But it's always interesting, in January, to see just how many people strengthen their determination to get fit, and equally, how many of them realise they've wasted the cost of gym membership by February.

The gym is, of course, where good looks and whatever you have resembling dignity go out of the window. It's a wholly necessary evil - that metabolism don't work like it did when i was 16 - but it would be nice if we didn't have to look so pathetic. NO-ONE escapes this in the gym. It is no place for sexual aesthetes. Skintight clothing reveals bulging, wobbling flab in all its revolting glory, while gelatinous fat breasts bob up and down in perfect rhythmic time with the crosstrainer; ripples of flesh ebbing and flowing up and down the body. Insert your own 'and that's just the fellas'-style joke here (although it lamentably IS the ostensibly stronger sex to whom I refer here). I don't look at the girls. I can't. For one thing I have a long-term girlfriend, and for another, I'd be too embarrassed even if I did. The gym reduces me to a panting, crimson-faced heap of sweat - not the best look for the alpha male on the prowl, i shouldn't imagine. The gym robs us all of our cool, assuming we have any to begin with.

In fact, the only reason we go is so that, after hiding all signs that we do work out at all, we hope that we might eventually look ever-so-slightly better. And therefore cooler. So the fact that we have to wait innumerable aeons for any given machine, every January, only seems to prolong the agonies we put ourselves through in order to attain that distant goal. Fuel is then added to this fire with the knowledge that the ones causing this extra waiting time will have lost interest, patience or will power by February, thus inferring that our agony is trivial. I mean, Christ, I've not kept up my New Year's resolution very well, but at leat it's not fucking up anyone else's regular routine.

More self-important OTT rants about the gym to follow - until I at least start to look like Dolph Lundgren, at any rate.

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My last post was all about how great new music is. Such a shame that I've followed this up with a week spent listening almost exclusively to the Gin Blossoms and Redd Kross. Ah well. I'll get out of the 90s one day.