So, being determined to break my fat ass out of the fat farm and get somewhere to a relatively in-shape person who doesn’t resemble the Michelin Man, I got the treadmill. See prior post. And in this attempt to get physically fit, I’ve been spending an hour a day on the fucking thing. Yay? It’s actually not too bad, all things considered, since a) no one can see me in my house, and b) I get to watch crappy TV at full volume without being judged.
The downside, you ask?
My treadmill is possessed. Yes, folks, it is possessed by the ghosts of sprinters past.
Today I got to go home early, so I tralalaaaa’d my way home, eager to get on the beast (previously named Big Bertha) and do a good jaunt before sitting McLardButt down on the couch to watch EVEN MORE TV and screw around on the interwebz.
Hey, here’s a good idea! Let’s do intervals and work on our cardio! Yeah! In shape here I come *flexes muscles menacingly*
So I got on Big Bertha and did a few intervals, and was feeling pretty damn good about myself. 45 minutes? Yeah? NO PROBLEM! Let’s get this party started!
And then…. Big Bertha earned her new name and gender…. Dahmer.
Yes, folks, my treadmill is trying to kill me.
At the 45 minute mark, I was feeling pretty confident… pretty on top of the world, shall we say. I pumped up the speed to the jogging speed, to do another interval…. and Dahmer decided it was time to play “how fast do your fucking legs move, there’s a serial killer chasing you”, which is not entirely funny, per se, on a machine or in real life. I jumped off like a motherfucking ninja, stopped the beast and glared at it, and wondered what the fuck world the setting I’d put it on equaled “full on sprint RUN FOR YOUR LIIIIIIIIIIVES”….
And like a complete dumbfuck? I did it a few more times before finally deciding that, in order to operate this POS, all running shall occur before the 45 minute mark of my workout. Full stop.
Dahmer, you win this round, you stupid bastard.
Devil machine. *sprays holy water on it*
Anyone know a treadmill exorcist?