"the lad seemed to be running in circles. it was his way of killing time. the actual fact though, was dead set on the table: he wanted to make himself feel excellent. there was no other way he could waste his life off. perhaps there are other alternatives: go on an emotional rampage of a major killing frenzy with an ak-47, become a gay activist, pick his nose all day long, etcetera. but no, an ak-47 would be too bloody expensive for him, he's not gay and picking his nose would not at all do justice to all the stray cats in the world. besides, all the other alternatives are according to him, un-awesome as compared to say, becoming a kickass rockstar or a soccer player or a writer of guy ritchie's equivalent. so there he was was panting, pitting his muscles and sweat set during his targeted length of time, tiring himself so that he can sleep like a monkey drunk on a dozen bottles of rotten scotch later on at night. he wanted to achieve that robust physical stature that would make women swoon and that he would be proud, ultimately, of himself. moist of his mineral matter, some of it probably fats from yesterday's kfc meal drips off his body. he was breathing hard as he tells himself that that should be enough for that day. he lights a stick of tobacco as he faced the shower cap, closed his eyes and waited for that cold smack of h20 to meet his face and hair. it was freedom - for him at least. it was intensely ironic, his actions of keeping 'fit' and the action of degrading his health. so sense-Less. so fucking meaning-Less. but he's enjoying every moment of it."