Tomorrow I am going to make an attempt to exercise at the gym before work. I really cannot guarantee that I will do this because it’s more likely that I’ll punch myself in the snoot when my alarm clock trills pre-sunrise for trying to trick myself into imagining that I’d leave my bed for a sweat-oozing treadmill.
Still, I live in (false) hope.
There has to be something easier than believing all day that I’ll go to gym after work, only to head straight to Spar to pick up a four-pack of those mind-alteringly delicious new chocolate desserts being advertised on the televisionary box.
Maybe the answer is to try get the exercise part of the day done before work. Or maybe the answer is to put on 300 kg and start a reality show about myself involving people diving for Kruger Rands hidden in my voluminous roles of fat.
My mind is aching right now.