Justin Razor and the World

Unlike a growing contingent of “athletes” obsessed with efficiency at the expense of results and productivity, I love to train. In fact, I fucking LIVE to train. The understated ease yet enjoyable difficulty and toil that comes with increasing your work capacity, refining a previously intimidating technique, perfecting the firing of your neuromuscular proficiencies, and simply pumping your limbs full of blood until they are close to bursting all amalgamate to form a potent cocktail that will forever remain unmatched and unsurpassed by any narcotic or liquor. In my opinion, it even beats the height of orgasm at times. Arnold said it first, so by default it can’t be wrong.                                                              The King has spoken. It is both the bane and the blessing of every bodybuilder’s existence. It can leave you unfathomably sore and crippled with DOMS after the ecstasy of the experience has subsided, yet, in the moment, you can feel as i

Disgust can be a powerful motivator. For an area with a climate that not only requires, but practically commands that both sexes remain mostly uncovered for the overwhelming majority of the year or risk possible heat stroke, my amazement with the vast cadre of physiques here is essentially non-existent. The notable exception is, surprisingly, those belonging to my age group. In an interesting turn of events, the complete antithesis of what is usually encountered on the mainland; many millennials here pride themselves on their fitness levels, athletic abilities, and the aestheticism of their bodies. Whereas, even in my beloved California, a woman that dedicates herself to the gym with passionate devotion, rather than idiotically starving herself then halfheartedly plodding through a Zumba class a few times a week, is a rarefied minority, in paradise, nearly every woman, from Mothers to Marines, is in the gym 5 days out of the week, pumping iron, hitting the heavy bag, and sprinting on

Here I am again, speaking to you, the call that forever beckons, the ear endlessly bent to hear my dying voice. I am but a whisper in this world trailing the winds, distant and remote, eternally cursed to witness and observe, but never to enjoy and partake. If this is to be my fate, so be it, but you should know by now that a Man like me does not lay down into pitiful subservience. The only time I will take any pose somewhat resembling submission is when Im laid to rest in a pine box for the long haul. I've been asked numerous times why I continue to press forward, to wage silently yet passionately against the demons accosting me at every turn, eyeing me hungrily whilst shrouded in their darkness, the shadow that has stifled the light within me, enveloping me in the unknown. I do so because my soul yearns for more, for an inkling of a future where my life is once again under my soveriegn control and I am purposefully and personally driven.  I salivate at the prospect of willing

Life here can be somewhat isolated and lonely at times. The normal interests, such as drinking, clubbing and general bar hopping, are alien to me now. Sure, when Im with friends I get fucked up and comatose, but when Im on my own, which is 95% of the time, consuming alcohol only serves to leave me sluggish and vulnerable, the last thing I want or need. Surfing is obviously a popular pastime, given that Hawaii is known globally for its practice and origins. The beaches, coated in rich, intense sunlight, are picturesque and inviting, as are the bountiful women sporting naught but thongs and pasties that seem to populate them nearly exclusively. Unfortunately, my ridiculous sun allergy, which also contributes to one of my many nicknames, The Broken Mexican, eradicates any hope of lounging on the sands for more than a few minutes. This leaves me in quite the conundrum. Incapable of participating in the local activities, comfortably anyway, because my stubborn ass still does, I find mys

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Restlessness gnaws at my sense of devotion to the “career” I’m saddled with. I begin each day, or night, they’ve become interchangeable, with a renewed hope that I may find inspiration or a type of primitive beauty in what I do. These hopes are dashed quickly however; as I trudge to my car to begin the eternal plod towards mediocrity I endure with the dawn of each evening. P.T. Barnum, showman and eccentric he was, stated, and forgive me for paraphrasing, that a man will amount to naught and will inevitably fail should he be employed in a profession that God had not ordained for him. And this, my audience, is certainly not my divinely ordained vocation.   I always joke with friends and acquaintances that I was blessed with 3 gifts only; writing, math, and hand balancing. At first glance, if ones perspective is restricted solely to the surface, only the middle occupant of this list would amount to anything fruitful. My propensity for numbers has won me splendid amounts at the

I feel your eyes on me constantly, piercing and salivating. My every movement is tracked, scanned for any sign of hostility or aggression. Guys like you are weak individually, so the Law of Large Numbers becomes your superpower, the gigantic group your failsafe. You hate me because I refuse to backdown, neglect to carry myself with pitiful timidity like the members of your little peanut gallery do when your alliance is reduced to its constituents come morning light. The awakening sun reveals your weakness, dissolving your manicured threats and exposing your hollow hearts.  None of you know real darkness, the abyss growling malevolently from the depths of despair, seeking to devour you every waking hour. Your collective has no inkling of the paranoia and alertness that afflict you when you have to remain in fighting shape simply because survival requires it. Eventually, you exist as iron and stone simultaneously, anything warm or gentle in your soul dying as it's iced an

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