Twisted Deities

"Anyone can see my every flaw, it isn't hard. Anyone can say they're above this all. It takes my pain away."

There are days when I begin to believe in Karma. Hell, there are even days when I want to believe in some kind of God, if only so I can believe that He/She/It hates me and has singled me out in order to set an example for the rest of humankind. My sin yesterday was nothing to do with my ranting against the USCIS - those fuckers have their own twisted deities - and everything to do with my mentioning that my attempts to take better care of myself, to work off a few pounds, quit smoking, and maybe eat just a little better, were finally bearing abdominal fruit.

Heh. 'Bearing abdominal fruit'. I think I just invented a new euphemism for taking a dump.

Anyway, as you might expect, the hour I've been spending on the bike and the treadmill every morning has, more often than not, left my legs in various forms of pain. We're not talking anything major, just the usual aches of exertion, of muscles that aren't used to that kind of treatment. By yesterday afternoon, though, I realised that the pain I was experiencing following my earlier workout was not usual. It was, in fact, so bad that I was having trouble walking.


Using the above diagram, we can quite clearly see that I am suffering because I have stretched my Calcaneal-Fibular Ligament. This means no gym for a few days, which in turn means I can't burn off like 800 calories every morning for a few days, which in turn means only prescription amphetamines can keep me on the fast-track to weight loss.

And that wasn't even the end of Karma's revenge on your plucky young hero. You see, Saturday is my day off. On Saturdays, Jenn and I tend to get lunch compliments of Carl's Jr., dinner compliments of Pizza Hut, and beverages compliments of Mr. Jack Daniel. Yup, Saturday is guilty pleasure day, so imagine my horror when - upon our return home from our lunchtime trip out for alcohol and junk food - we were confronted by...by this:


Yes, at the end of the corridor that leads to our apartment, just lying on the ground like such a thing was entirely normal, was an unsmoked cigarette. Imagine the horror, dear readers, of being on the thirty-third day of a Cold Turkey detox from an addiction you suffered for twelve long years only to be confronted by the ultimate temptation. All I had to do was reach down and pick it up. All I had to do was put it in my mouth. All I had to do was walk the ten yards to the apartment, pick up a lighter, and touch flame to tip. I was thirteen steps from heaven...

...and twenty-six steps from grabbing the camera and taking a picture of my former addiction before heading back to the apartment, leaving the Virgin Cigarette to be deflowered by some other poor sucker with lung cancer in his future.

And Karma? I've got your Karma right here.