So, my slovenly posterior has defaced this chair irreparably. My two months spent out of work have passed quickly, and the calories and carbohydrates have mounted within me in haste. The rain sinks me, and I miss my bike.
A muscular woman on television beckons toward some bizarre machine, a spindly, spidery confluence of tension bars and flywheels and cable-winders. Her arm is veiny. It encourages me to try a free trial; to unfold this glistening miracle of modern mechanics and reshape my o-so-pliable physique. This cyprian employs the devils of the sales-trade, plumbing the depressed and sleepless to fatten her pocketbook with the spoils of commission.
My own objectives are far less clear. Why do I sit at this black hour, listening to the rodents who nest in my attic and the late night adverts for personal-enhancements, typing into the silence? Why, indeed.
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