Ftrain, by Paul Ford

I am by my presence rather hard on bikes and my bicycle, like its owner, has a wobbly rear. Which means I should take it--almost definitely a bent spoke--to Dixon's. I might put a ride in around the park first, though, then drop it off.

Yesterday A---- suggested the manicule, ☞, that you see at the bottom of each table (assuming you use an adult web browser). A small thing that adds a great deal to the enterprise. He also said the way to make it over the Prospect Park Hill, a hill that sucks for everyone, is to find a rhythm and stick to it.

So I'm looking for a song to sing as I scale the hill, nothing too urgent, just a steady pulse to remind my legs of the right way to go. My first impulse was the last two minutes of "Love Like a Sunset" by Phoenix; my second impulse was to kill myself for the first impulse.

If I don't ride the loop I should go to the gym, and I do not want to go to the gym. I pay for that membership so I'll ride my bike.

I do know, however, that weightlifting is going to be part of this mess if I truly want to burn weight and get the giant-roided-and-flabby-bouncer look that is my genetic wont. I'm not excited about being in that downstairs weight room with all the mirrors and other men, men strong and assured in their flexibility and virility, appraising me, before turning back to their own reflections, as a pathetic junktub. Sure, I can take it, have taken it in the past; I can handle every kind of taunt from the slight eyeroll to the pack of Brooklyn teen girls pointing out that n---- is fat. But why start there? No, no. For now we'll just work on cardio and calories; I can add cocksucking later.