At the beginning of April I was forced to pull myself together and start working out again. 5-6 days a week, sometimes twice a day. I told ManFriend that it was because I want to do a Tin Man Triathlon, which is true(ish). Truthfully there is a far, far less dignified reason.
It all began not so long ago, in a house that was probably this one...
*insert wavy flashback sequence effect*
Home alone, I was dragging my carcass upstairs when *touch* I felt a light brush on my lower back. Just a gentle touch, almost a caress right above my bottom. I looked behind me. No one was there. Warily, I turned back to the monumental task of climbing the stairs.
There it was again! Quick look behind me, still no one there. Being the rational, intelligent person that I am I immediately used my Powers of Reason to come to a plausible conclusion as to the cause of the personal space violation.
|The victim always gets the blame in ghost rape scenarios.|
It turns out every laboured step I'd taken had jostled my ass upwards then violently downwards, each motion amplified by next step until there were veritable tsunamis of ass fat roaring their way up my backside. Each wave of surplus flesh had crested against my back in whole hearted claps. I like to think that, in it's own way, my ass was giving me high fives of encouragement, saying, "you can do it tubby, you can do stairs."
The fear that I might destroy buildings with the next ass tsunami drove me back to the gym. And that's the truth.
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