Hurnaissance.

Like renaissance, but for retarded people.

So I've been missing for quite some time. Just short of a week, now.

...one-person pun, that one. And hardly funny by any stretch of the imagination. I apologise.

The strange thing is, it's hard to get started, in the same way, no matter what you apply it to. Reasonable things, of course. It would not be hard to get started on having scantily-clad women feed you sashimi while interesting things go on about a metre down from where the sashimi goes in. If said women, sashimi and huge bed were readily available, that is.

And you know how hard it is to find good sashimi, these days.

But it's hard to start on anything for yourself without an immediate, tangible reward. Cleaning your room, for example. You know it's going to be a bunch of dusting, wiping, moving and mopping. And the more you think about it, the more perfectly clean your room seems to be, so fuck off, alright?

Or starting on exercise. You know how long it took you the last time to finally be able to see that first bicep line. And now you've laid off it for so long, the dumbbell you casually scratched your back with last time is impossible to lift. You blame the tiny elves holding it to the ground, then go have a beer.

Eventually, you do. And cleaning your room is just like you thought it would be. You collect enough dust to stuff a pillow with, discover the obligatory one fossilized cockroach, and break out in hives all over your body. After a few hours, it's finally done and you hurl the cloth viciously into the bucket in a gesture of finality to no one in particular. Then you take a shower to clean off off the dirty water you just splashed on yourself.

You dry off and come back into the room again and hey, it's somehow more pleasant, isn't it? Your feet don't stick to the floor anymore. And the air smells fresher too. Why you don't do this more often, you have no idea.

And perhaps you'll finally put on your running shoes and go for that run you've promised yourself for two we...months, now. And yes, you feel like shit. Oh gods, how did you ever manage to do this in the past. Jesus, you don't need to inflict this on yourself.

You get back home dejected, damned near dead and knowing it's going to take a lot more than a twenty-minute run to get back in shape. You're no Belgian Blue Cow. The good news is, you don't ever have to worry about people discovering you run cow-photos.blogspot.com Seriously, wtf.

After just ten minutes though, when you've caught your breath again, you feel pretty good, don't you? Perkier. Energetic. Why, you'd even swear you can see your abs now. Why you don't do this more often, you have no idea.

And neither do I.