November 25, 2010

I can't breathe because my diaphragm is jacked up into my chest and my intestines, packed as they are with food, are punishing me with merciless gas. So I go for a token walk to feel I have had some exercise. Air goes in and out of the lumbering sack of dough that I have become. The dog's paws go shush shush shush in the snow and her shadow looks like a wolf shadow. The trees bending around the shape of the road make a tunnel. The moon is a tapas dish of flan with one bite taken out. The cold air makes the lungs feel like they are working again. I try to strike from my mind the knowledge, taught to me by the treadmill, that what feels like such good exercise will only burn around 15 calories.