Invigoraticized!

This searing waist-band pain cannot dampen my spirits. I am facing a full-length mirror in my armoiretum, so named because it contains several dozen armoires, each stuffed with costumes from my film and television career. I am looking at what appears to be a monstrous banana muffin in army pants*, but it's just me. Shirtless, in army pants. My manboobs and gut form a flesh cascade, a frozen waterfall of fat breaking over this corrugated, burning welt that rings my waist. If I don't unbutton these pants soon my head will pop off with a blood gush and roll into the corner, spinning to rest with a fucking SMILE on its face! Yes, despite these pants nearly bisecting me, I am beaming. My manager dropped off the contract today. My first serious part in a long while. Is it possible that this is the long awaited turning of the page to the next chapter of my

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhfuck. Whew.

life?

(I unbuttoned my pants)

I hope so. By the way, what determines the next chapter? The events that happen to you or your own decision to simply start writing the next chapter? Maybe both. At any rate, I'm ready. Time to call my personal trainer, Danther. I haven't spoken to him in nearly 18 years. I hope he's still a personal trainer.

*Do you remember 'Twelve Guns A Lady'? My last military role.