You calculate your daily energy expenditure for your age, height and weight.

You subtract the amount of calories that two long beers and a late supper will give, and you eat that much less daily.

Then you buy a skateboard, gym ball and a punching bag, and you buy a car rack for your bicycle so you can double the amount of energy expenditure on weekends.

Then check back here in a month to see how much weight you've lost and if you're ready to master yet another bulk down muscle up cycle.


I wonder if my dad can design a self-fastening bolted hook strong enough for the punching bag?

I've broken enough mirrors, cupboards, doors and switches and tv monitors at home as it is with my fist. He'll prefer I do the bag, I'm sure.

The 12 hours between 12 am and 12 pm are out of bounds for talking to me, again.

If my body is not sore when I go to sleep, either my brain will be, or my mind, or someone else.

It is a long, long way to fall, for someone to go from believing in his dreams, to being determined to surviving anything this life throws at him.



I like how coldly logical all this is, until the next time I hear my mum crying at 3am in the morning and I feel like I want to break every fucking thing in the house all over again, or see some blood, or bleed trying. Man, self-hatred. How will this end? I cannot see a good outcome in any way right now.


God cannot put up that bag fast enough.

Hurry up, Dad.

When will someone, anyone, understand this ?


The only way to displace an unreasonable pain is to come to terms with why you caused it.

Or come up with a bigger pain that eclipses it.

Shine it on, motherfucker.