Before I hit my late twenties and became a knowledge nerd - I was the mature age student at uni who used to tell the young folk to shush with their trivial small talk - I didn't really care for education, and I certainly got up to some interesting and unorthodox chemistry experimentation in high school.
I wasn't trying to be rebellious, I just found the syllabus extremely boring and I couldn't really get my head around the stuff that didn't put me into a sleep-induced haze. I still don't really do science, or math for that matter. Now words I understand. Me and words are like peas and carrots.
It really is a wonder that I didn't annihilate my arms in high school like some deranged terrorist who botched Bomb-Making 101. Some of those science experiments can cause quite the chemical chain reaction. I wanna get your love all ready for the sweet sensation, instant radiation. Oh dear, I think I've been sprung quoting Diana Ross. No matter, because it's a first-rate song; one in which I will totes be downloading onto my iPod, now that it's trapped inside my head a little bit.
Everyone knows that the Hulk appears shortly after his alter ego was "accidently" exposed to the blast of a test detonation of a gamma bomb he invented. I hate it when things like that happen to me.
And I'm starting to think this type of situation did accidently happen to me recently. I'm retracing my footsteps over the past few weeks to try and piece together the exact time and location that I was exposed to the blast of a test detonation of a gamma bomb.
The cause of my concern is an array of bulging triceps located precisely where my previously uninspired triceps used to reside. Something is up. Alternatively, they might be due to the fact that I'm working my buttocks off at the gymnasium about 23 times a week. I must say, my new muscles are comparatively splendid.
I was telling someone at work the other day about my exercise program, and they graciously and diplomatically didn't fall asleep on the spot, so that was kind of them. This person suggested that I keep an exercise diary so I can trace the changes in my energy levels etc and, thus, won't get all concerned when I next grow muscles overnight.
This idea is all very well, but I think I would bore myself stupid writing about my progress, and I would likely have no time to actually exercise. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not really a few-lines-outta-do-it kind of diary keeper. Although I wish I had kept a record when I started at the gym last October, because I was fairly unfit and fairly untoned and fairly unhulk-like, and reading about that now would make me feel heaps toned and Hulky.
I started a new program a few weeks ago - the program I like to call the Hulk technique - and I've really noticed the difference in the appearance and strength of my muscles in that time. Which is ace. While doing weights is kind of becoming a bit tedious, it certainly doesn't hurt that the chap who does my program is fairly hot and, well, *sigh*.
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