Fred Aiken Writing

3am and there’s no one else at the gym except for the fitness influencer that’s been up for the past 18hours with the help of fistfuls of creatine and energy drinks injected straight into their blood stream, but no illicit drugs–ALL NATTY, BABY!!!–so don’t even suggest that they’re taking some sort of Kentucky-Derby-style cocktail that may or may not (but probably definitely) responsible for the death of Sea Biscuit, because the fitness influencer doesn’t do drugs, just reps, after reps, after reps, as they get their camera shot at just the right angle, for 4hours straight, for all of their wonderful, beautiful, envious viewers at home wanting to see how they do it, how do they do it?, get their bodies to look like some sort of action figure, gigabytes of data in film content that’s ready to upload and broadcast to their dedicated and loving fan base willing to shell out hard-earned (though barely missed) cash for vitamins made in some sweatshop half-way around the world in a country the fitness influencer couldn’t pronounce, much less tell you what sort of life they live, what sort of issues they face, but that doesn’t matter, there’s no time to sit still and contemplate that sort of negativity, no time for depressing thoughts, need to get up–GET UPP!–and then maybe bend down to touch your toes, because you’re not looking so hot, maybe take another supplement, lift a few more lbs, run a few more miles, down an unholy amount of salt tablets, and GET-BACK-OUT-THERE!!!!!