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Loser

I see you glaring at me. I sense the envious desire for the muscle and health I possess hidden behind your thinly veiled criticism. "There's no point to working out, youre just going to die anyway.", you ridicule from the safety of a smugly annoying sneer. So if entropy and the promise of a degrading body are reason enough to not workout, then I suppose all endeavors are pointless. No great books should be written, the intellect should never be expanded, no unknown experiences, fresh and novel as they are,  should be sought out. Hell, even reproduction, the primary focus of life on this Earth, is rendered unnecessary and shallow. Just ignore your biological imperative and never satiate your sex drive, although, given your steady diet of Sprite and Star Crunch pastries, I doubt your stellar physique is scoring you any points with women, delicious as they are. You disdain my workouts as regretful. "There are so many other things you could be doing.", you retort when I speak of the myriad benefits I enjoy and the achievements Ive accomplished. The muscularity and strength Ive acquired leave me virile and able. I fear no spontaneous fight, and regularly enjoy the dividends of my consistent investments and deposits in the Bank of Health, as Ted Skup is so fond of calling it. So no, I wont feel pathetic, ornery or ridiculous as I awaken at 0330 again, 5 days a week, to perform my first training session of the day. I wont be self-conscious or shamed for allowing my gaze to linger a few seconds longer than usual when I pass by a mirror as I admire the the highly apparent fruits of my Sisyphean labor. Hell, even our tattoos tell the story sufficiently visibly for the prying eyes of the world to see. Your chestpiece sags and dangles from loose folds of skin. The elaborate tribal youve decorated your shoulders with has become misshapen and warped, ironic as that style is intended to enhance the taut, powerful muscles of a resplendent physique, not be molested by the dripping fat just below your stained epidermis. Everytime someone sees me shirtless, they beg to know why I dont carry more ink. And I will, believe me. The sinews of my forearms flex powefully with each motion, and I am blessed to have a beautiful cross tattooed in bold pastels on the inner portion. Your body is faded, aged construction paper, the archaic beginnings of a child "artist", left carelessly to rot in the sun, while mine is a canvas worthy of the Louvre or the personal collection of any autocrat. Am I arrogant? Yes, very much so. If you are pure and without sin, without contempt in your judgement of my sweat and toil, then I am altogether perfect in my defense of my life's work. Continue to overindulge in sugar and allow your body to rot as you wile away your precious years of sexual primacy and financial earning potential in virtual worlds long abandoned by Men your age. You repulsive, disgusting creature, keep my name from your mouth. You arent even worthy of sharing the same breath as me.

All my life Ive been lectured on what it means to be a Man. Ive taken the words of my Father, my Uncles, and my Grandfather to heart. Their sayings, admonitions and regards are my first tattoos, indellibly inked translucently on my soul. As young men, we are hopelessly adrift in an uncaring world, as is the eternal nature of things. We are meant to endure, to champion fatally against the unbending torrential adversities we are plagued with, and to finally prosper, warrior kings who have earned the right to seize destiny and fate in each hand powerfully and command them for once. This is the kind of young man I am, cut from the cloth of blue collar Men who embody Strength and Honor, Vires Et Honestas. I am honored to be born into their lineage, to feel the electric, primal fury of their blood racing through me. Its why I fight in all aspects. I love a physical challenge, even if its painfully obvious that Im horribly outclassed. The thrill of pitting your strength against that of another man in a battle for supremacy and glory is the most delectable high there is. I pity the horrendous shrew that shys away from violence because it is "beneath him". No, its not, you are a disgusting coward and confrontation is a fact of life. You are the hipster I relieved of his chair and his dignity for mocking my "gorilla walk" whilst my back was turned but my eyes were scanning the mirror. You earned that response with your passive-aggressive, effete mannerisms, such as eye rolling and allowing your jaw to unhinge like a teenage girls when I called you out. I am still a good person. I feed the homeless, I help those who cant defend themselves, and fuck, I even helped a highly inebriated man into an ambulance as he lay prostrate and meek in the baking sun this past Saturday. People snickered and walked by, all too willing to gawk and gaze at the spectacle of goodwill and love unfolding before them, alien as it is to todays sickening society, yet amusingly unwilling to dirty their hands by assisting their fellow citizen as he helped with the potential survival of a vagrant.

Maybe my ideals are antiquates. Perhaps I am a man out of time. I firmly believe I wouldve been happier in the 40s or 50s. Ive fantasized about it enough. Id enlist in the Army, perhaps be a boxer like Gene Tunney, Archie Moore, or, my personal favorite, the perrennial vagabond and inspiration to outcast fighters everywhere, Jack Dempsey. Id marry a woman untainted by Third Wave Feminism and hilarious mental illnesses like a belief in "Stare Rape" and "Sexist Air Conditioning", and Id settle down. Yet, in the end, these are just musings inspired by the consumption of an unending stream of books about all facets of the era, and I wouldnt trade my life for anything, pockmarked with darkness as it is. As a beautiful girl has shown me and instructed me, we are the sum of our pasts, and all we can do is accept them. I love you baby.

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