/lit/ - Literature

>>16560663
My feet faintly debossed that unfamiliar terrain of rubber mulch. The reverberation of Whitney Houston's I Want to Dance with Somebody formed a commercialized admixture with the sounds of clanking steel and crashing rubber. Adding citrus notes to sterilizing agents does no favor for that acrid purifying stench, I thought to myself. I want to go home. I can't believe people voluntarily choose to do this.
I never liked exercise in my early school days. I never liked the light-headedness, the nausea, the caustic gaze of that wheezing corpulence of a PE teacher, the blearing of vision from a scorching sun, the oppressive vapor pressure of inside the locker room. Those ostensible halcyon days, when I glanced up from the baking earth to meet the derisive glare of my peers, I viscerally understood the old verbiage of "dropping the ball". Of course, the inference to make is to cease the passing of the ball to me altogether, which was the righteous judgement delivered unto me by my schoolmates.
Despite my current anguish, I'm here for a reason. That reason is something like that terrible choice that men who must jump out of burning buildings make: to fold over and onto the concrete like a fleshy accordion, or to slowly immolate in the encroaching flames. I think David Foster Wallace had this idea, but I don't remember. Anyway, that other variable of terror, that dreadful creeping flame was my pallid, almost sallow, folding adipose of a body. I loathed to look at my body. I averted the returning glances of all mirrors hopelessly, but I would look down and see that horrible yellow quaggy Kafkan beetle ooze out from my feet. Fuck it, I need to go to the gym.
I labored up the stairs, and was greeted my the man who would be my trainer. My eyes were granted respite from the glaring white fluorescence by a looming shadow. I sheepishly raise my head to be greeted by a wide edifice of Grecian marble, mounted upon it a pouting isosceles of a jaw with equally cutting pompadour of scintillating golden hair. Now, this guy. This tanned Achilles. This absolute UNIT, as one would say, bellowed a lively greeting: "'Sup, bro! My name is Chad. I'll be your personal trainer today.