In this case, I’m not talking about government bloat, but my own. This fucking pointless lockdown caused by the Chinkvirus has quite enfattened me, not so much because of what I’ve been eating — okay, not that much — but because our gym has been closed for the past three months by our timorous apartment management.
I hate strolling, unless to a pub — but as the pubs have been closed as well, even that has been denied me. AND we’re starting to approach the annual Texas Broil a.k.a. summer, so the desire to walk outside is lessened yet more. Which means that New Wife has put her foot down and decreed that we will now be entering a period of No Sugar And Only Healthy Foods. Fuck.
My coffee tastes like hot, rancid bilgewater and I can only imagine what weeks of salads and such are going to do to my already-tenuous control of my temper. And I know, I know:
I think I’ll just have to spend a lot more time at the range. Which reminds me, I need to lay in a little more ammo, because reasons.