Dear Diary,
I woke up this morning to find that I hit 240 exactly. I could react as usual by railing at you and the scale. But hell, this isn't even the same scale. Just some douche bag I met in Vegas. It doesn't even know me. How could it get my weight right? F*** you. That's not how scales work. It would make sense to actually weigh people but I don't get the feeling they do. They seem to like to f*** with you and I sense this one is no different. After all I did yesterday I'd have thought I'd stay the same. Ok maybe not, but I did put in some work. Sit ups, push ups, walked more than a mile between hotels in my suit and in what had to be 90 degree weather at 11pm. But f*** it. I figured I'd be happy if I came home below 240. I'm sitting in the airport now, so I'd say I came pretty damn close. Now I have the next 5 days off to work my a** off. Huh? It's a saying dumb f***. I know I need to work the belly much more than my a**. A**hole.
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