It's the gym, not a peep show

I've spent the last two or three weeks working my ass off in the gym trying to reach my end of Feb goal. It's definitely paying off, and starting to show, to me at least. I've graduated to the treadmill, have increased my weights/reps, and oh you know, went down a pant size in a month.

I love the convenience of the gym in my building, not to mention the sweet locker room with amazing showers, a sauna, and whirlpool. 24 Hour Fitness Santa Monica, take note. What I don't love is the nakedness. I'm no prude; hello Big Bear '07 trip, but seriously ladies, put some freaking panties on before you bend over to lotion up your legs. Try a tank top, or at least a bra before you go to blow dry your hair and put your makeup on. Oh, and don't lay on the side of the whirlpool with your feet propped up on the railing so the first thing I see when exiting the shower is your nasty whoo-ha. It's called wax, use it.

And dudes who stand in the corner and actually POINT at my ass while talking to their buddies, fuck off. There are mirrors all the way around the free weight room. You think I can't see you?

With only one week left in the month, and three pounds to go, I think I need to be off the booze for the weekend. Unfortunately I don't think that's going to happen. Juan, aka John Martin, is moving back to New Orleans, and we're having a karaoke blowout at the Prospector in Long Beach tonight. You can't go to the LBC and not drink, or pour a little out for the homies. So I guess it's vodka sodas and lime all night long.