I don’t work out because I feel some drive to be healthy, I honestly do it because I love the feel of it. I love when muscles ache from being pushed to the limit, I love being able to physically alter myself just by shoving my own weight around. And I really fucking love the feeling of my core right now, so warm and buzzing, like a cat just slept on it for four hours.
I love moving, I love being active, and I love seeing what my body can do once I figure out how.
I am probably a little bit addicted to endorphins, but there are worse things in life, so I take what I can get.
I get consumed by ideas sometimes. Its a happy consumption. I live for it, really. But often times others take it personally, when the truth is I’m not shutting them out at all.
I’ve just been swallowed up.
In these times I forget and forego all else. Responsibilities? Gone. Eating? Forget about it. Answering my phone? Not gonna happen.
These are the moments when the creative regions of my mind seem to take over and halt all other actions that are not directed or used for the project at hand.
And there is no personal company or romantic interest that can match their power or ecstasy.
I am addicted completely and ardently and will chase their rush, their madness, their perfect clarity, until the day I die.
I really just want an evil boyfriend. I thought this desire would go away if I talked to someone about it with someone, and really, its only gotten worse.
Not at all ashamed of it, just figured I’d warn guys, if you’re for some reason interested in this muscle-building 5’5” lady of creep and madness, I hope you’re older and morally ambiguous and actually intelligent enough to conquer your life and have a shot at conquering mine.
Gods, the challenge of that, the ecstasy of it, and the idea of someone being gentle to you who would otherwise be vicious to all others…
I’ll be in my bunk.