It's just a pull on the left. Then a pinch to the ri-i-i-i-ight.

In a mood, or moment, of self-improvement I've decided to get into shape. Better shape (i.e. other than circle). Yay me. So far, I've managed to shrink my stomach to a point where I now eat the once inadequate suggested serving size amounts and become full. Comfortably full. Like a gourmand's version of the Pink Floyd song as opposed to a 70's prog rocker's one (puff puff, drop drop). The classic nourishment vs. narcotic debate, wouldn't you agree? In setting out goals for my transformation, I feel like that was an important one to start with.

Anywho . . . I've been going back to the gym with pretty consistent attendance. The next time I'll be going is on Tuesday, after work. Until then, I have to live with and in my world of pain. Not a "pain= gain" positive discomfort, rather a "what the hell was I thinking= didn't sleep at all Friday night" outright hurt. It all satrted with a sled hack squat, not concentrating on form, and looking down when I shouldn't have in an instant of self-doubt. In the mortal words of many an asterisked 60's comic book editorial note, "'Nuff said."

I pulled or pinched something in my neck. Owie, fuckin' ow ow ow. I've been reduced to eating Tylenol like it's candy corn (mmmmm, candy corn) and moving my head in a fashion better suited for Robocop. I'm sure it'll go away by next weekend so I can both draw from a model at this swanky artists' sketch group AND help my friend's sister move from one Brooklyn apartment to the other. Or at least I hope it will.

Donations of muscle relaxers accepted.