My self-esteem instantly cripples
At sight of your abs and their ripples
But still you’re a douche
Who’s hooked on the juice
With bacne and two puffy nipples

I leave the coal mine at 6:30 p.m. and lumber to the gym, where a bunch of tools are finishing up a CrossFit class. CrossFit is this new thing where you run in circles and lay on the floor and jump up and down while someone yells at you and it basically seems like the worst thing in the world. And people pay for this! There are suckers born every minute. Suckers who, unlike me, enjoy being challenged in the gym.

And then the class lets out because I’m in the locker room and these guys come in and they’re all sweaty and grunty and I’m like, Congratulations, you are all MANLY MEN!

I skipped happy hour today and went to the gym instead, because if there is one thing I dislike more than brunch, it’s happy hour. BUT. I did accept an invitation to lose at Killer Bunnies, a card game I first played in Rehoboth a few weeks ago that is essentially Magic: The Gathering for gay urban nerds (aka my friends). I am completely obsessed with this game but not obsessed enough to be the one who pays for the expansion packs.

The gym was interesting because almost no one was there. Wednesday is usually an “off” day for me, as I now imagine it is for many other people. Not even the hairy 20-something government worker who wears compression shorts longer than his gym shorts (WHY?) and routinely pisses all over the toilet seat (I SEE YOU.) was there. Maybe he was hit by a bus.

And this is what qualifies as a “good” day in my nonstop thrill ride of a life. No, really, it was good!

So, wow, the hottest crystal meth addict was on “Intervention” last night. In terms of crystal meth addicts, I thought it didn’t get any hotter than Jeremy Jackson, but Aaron the former mixed martial arts champion is really giving him a run for his money.

Here is a picture of my new boyfriend/project Aaron, sporting two hallmarks of a classic Jersey douche: gelled hair and a landing strip. In all seriousness, he really is quite handsome.

Oh, and did I mention he is an actor?

Yes, that’s right! Aaron has performed in over 1,200 adult videos under the name Dick Delaware. (Click here if you’d like me to save you the time of Google Imaging his NSFW photos.) Unfortunately, he has retired from the business, choosing instead to spend his twilight years injecting speed and masturbating for 10 consecutive hours a day.

I know what you’re thinking: THE PERFECT MAN! A great face, a bodybuilder physique, a literally insatiable sexual appetite. If only he weren’t straight. And addicted to methamphetamine.

Predictably, Aaron completed rehab but relapsed after three weeks. The show portrayed him as a damaged individual who allowed himself to get caught in the endless cycle of porn acting and drugs. I’m afraid this sudden exposure will serve only to open more doors for deadend opportunities in porn, but perhaps I’ll be proven wrong. At the very least he should drop that stupid Dick Delaware moniker.

I went to a “political fundraiser” last night, and by that I mean my friend is running for reelection in the ANC and a wine-and-cheese party was thrown in his honor. There were lots of people there I didn’t know and a near-equal number of people I didn’t feel like getting to know, but a few proved worthy of the risk of uncomfortable small talk, including this kid I recognized from my gym.

Now, unlike the completely ridiculous Vida that opened on 15th and P Streets last week, my gym is far from a gay discotheque masquerading as a health club. In fact, it caters pretty strongly to that niche market of individuals who go to the gym to – wait for it – work out. No one talks to each other, eye contact is avoided, and military efficiency both in the locker room and near the weight racks is encouraged. And so for me to admit to recognizing a fellow gym member at a party is almost taboo, because it would imply my attention at some point during a workout drifted from the task at hand to the face of another human being. But whatever, I stare creepily at people all the time, so I walked right up to him last night and said hi.

As it turns out, he recognized me as well (obviously) and we debated briefly the hotness level of the male trainers based on height, hair style, and bicep size. I also commented on the fact that he works with a trainer while I do not, feigning a tinge of jealousy, even though I strongly prefer to perform bench presses without looking up the shorts of someone who’s being paid to shout at me. The conversation was going fine, until one of my friends walked over.

“Oh, hey, this is ___, we go to the same gym. He has a trainer, I don’t.”

The unintentional cattiness of my remark was further enforced by my friend, who said, “Really?” and laughed.

I’m looking forward to returning to the gym on Monday, where a 50-pound dumbbell will likely be dropped on my foot.

Because I’m more hardcore than you, I was doing ATG (ass-to-ground) squats last night, as I normally do each week. I was squatting five reps of 205 pounds – a new record for me. (If you can squat more, please don’t judge me. I don’t judge you when I see you “squatting” 500 pounds on the Smith machine.) Of course, my gym shorts were too small, so whenever I finished a set, I had to reach around and pull the seat of my shorts out from the crack of my ass. By the workout’s end, my underwear was as displaced as my gay college-aged angst circa 2003.

In any event, I bring this up because of the stupendously GAY mental routine I’d perform before each set. Standing in front of the bar, I’d clap my hands with imaginary talcum powder and ready myself mentally, physically, spiritually. After a moment’s pause – a moment that stretched for an eternity – I’d approach the bar and throw myself under it, supporting my bodyweight’s worth of iron and steel on my powerful shoulders. Squat downward, blast upward. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. One more. Repeat. I slam the bar back onto the power rack, step back, and address the judges. Fin.

And during those 50 seconds, I really did feel like Nastia Liukin.

I am 192 pounds. I took progress pictures tonight of my upper body and my legs. I will start cutting when I hit 200 in May.

On Monday night my best friend from high school texts me the following: “omg emergency you must check your gmail asap.” Tragically, I am in a restaurant with my boyfriend and unable to access my iPhone because I don’t have one yet. However, I’m certain that someone from my high school got pregnant, got cancer, got fat, or died, because my friend would have no reason to text me otherwise.

I obsess about this text message throughout the duration of our meal, wondering what exciting tidbit my friend has in store for me. The last time this happened, I was simply told via text message, “Ellen has cancer.” Assuming Ellen DeGeneres was diagnosed with breast cancer, I logged onto Google News and found nothing. Turns out she meant Ellen, a mutual high school friend. Perversely, I was relieved.

My boyfriend and I finally get back to his apartment, where I show considerable restraint as he hops onto the lone computer and does a Google Image search for Roger Lodge. Once that’s out of the way, I push him aside and log into Gmail, where I see several new Google Alerts, something from Citibank about paying taxes with your credit card (hmm, seems responsible), and – yes! – an e-mail from my friend, WITH PHOTO ATTACHMENTS. This is going to be good.

But oh, it was not good. Quite the opposite, actually. Living 300 miles away, my friend isn’t quite filled in on my body dysmorphic tendencies and surely had no idea that sending me photos of a high school classmate who is now a bodybuilder would send me into a spiral of despair. This person looked better than me in high school (soccer and wrestling star) and looks better than me know, despite my efforts. And in my pathetic world where all I have time for is my job and the gym, that’s all that matters to me.

So I delete the e-mail and I remind myself that he is 5′4″ and orange and looks like a squat Super Mario, which didn’t help nearly as much as the pint of Haagen Dazs Sticky Toffee Pudding that I ate two minutes later while curled up on the couch with my boyfriend watching the new “Samantha Who.”