Baseball... who really has the time anyway?

I used to look at all the zits on my face in the mirror, popping white heads, scorching my face with hot towels, just trying to be pretty. All I ever wanted to be was cool and pretty. I hated my face, and I couldn't be cool, so I just acted like a dick. That seemed to work for a while, and then I suddenly became kinda cool. I don't know how it happened, it just did... but then it stopped again, so now I'm just back to being a dick because I'm afraid I can never be cool again. The zits have been gone for years, but they might as well still be there, because I feel exactly the same. Only now it's a double chin and wrinkles on my forehead. Never easy, never satisfied.
My once semi-ripped torso has now morphed itself into somewhat of a Harvey Keitel body from the Bad Lieutenant, you know, the part in the movie where he is smoking crack and shooting heroin in the kitchen with his shirt off? Yeah... that's what I've turned into. Sitting around the house in Iowa for an undisclosed amount of time will do that to someone... anyone. Sitting is the big thing around here. We sit on couches, in cars, at restaurants, and on porches. While smoking the entire time. Smoking and frying things, that's a big one as well. We fry shit almost as much as Scottland does, I found that out the hard way on my way to Edinburgh castle. The line of restaurants on the cobblestone walkway leading up to the castle offer you nothing but deep fried, deep fried. By the time I made it to Braveheart central, the only thing I could do was ask someone where the bathroom was, with a face and stance that looked like I had just been stabbed in the stomach. Kicking open the bathroom door, knocking over children to get to a stall, finally exploding the deep fried half chicken I had just consumed not even a block away. The noises that were coming out of me were so embarrassing, that I ran straight out of castle with my head down.
It's not like I couldn't unseal my brain and actually use the treadmill and the weight set in the basement. I'll tell you what though... every fucking night when my head hits the pillow, that's the first thing I'm going to do when I wake up in the morning. 50 push ups, chug some orange juice, and go into the basement to hit the weights and jog on the treadmill at the same time. Maybe even take a nice walk outside in the fresh air. Unfortunately, not 3 minutes after I wake up I'm already sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. I somehow manage to pull at least 30 push ups out of my ass at some point in the day, but that's about the extent of my massive morning work out. By the end of the day, when I climb the stairs to the bedroom... I have to sit on the end of the bed because I am completely winded. I do however, find the energy to jerk off at least 4 times before I actually go to sleep.
I need a serious flame under my ass, maybe guided by a therapist... It amazes me that I have actually grown in leaps and bounds in the past few years. Especially after reading this back. I used to be an actually pile of shit... not I'm just a caricature of my old self, kinda fucking awesome.