i think my personal trainer is trying to kill me.

hey “guy-at-the-pool-at-the-gym-on-sunday-morning-in-a-speedo”. no not you with the tiny pee pee and the awkward tan, you, the other one, with what looks like three pairs of woollen socks shoved down there. yes you. well, remember i said you should call me? i’ve changed my mind, you’d better not.

i think my personal trainer, ‘jim’, is trying to kill me. after our session this evening there’s absolutely no way i’ll be able to have sex for at least the next five days, let alone bend down, walk or sit. in fact, i think i might be paralysed. sorry mr bulgy-speedo-pants, maybe another time.

after running a hundred thousand kilometres, jim made me do a billion lunges. i swear, if we’d lunged in a straight line i would have made it to your house and back.

jim is a little crazy. he’s one of those super fit, super motivated, super tough guys. he eats kilometres for lunch. he does the iron man and likes it.

i bitch (just wait till tomorrow) but he’s effective in his torture. if anyone’s looking to drop a couple of kilos before summer, jim’s your guy. drop me a line and i’ll send you his details. but don’t tell him i sent you, it’ll only encourage him and then i’ll have to do one and a half million hammer curls on thursday.

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