Sweet mother of mercy, I've just got back from the gym and feel like I've been dragged for miles by a speeding truck. My stomach hurts. My heart thinks it's at Ministry of Sound. I have sweat all over me, which, by the way, seems to feel strangely pure, like it's just innocent dribbles of water and nothing more (not greasy and foul). Wow, I must have done a lot of exercise, you must be thinking, but that's unfortunately far from true. The machine alleges that I burnt 150 calories. I have no idea whether that's good or bad.

What I do know, however, is that if I'd gone on the running machine with Pedro, I'd have literally died. Died not just because my blood pressure increases even in anticipation of a mere gentle jog, but also because situated between myself and Pedro would have been this marathonwear-clad girl who was giving it utter beans, and would have caused early rigor mortis to set into my poor, feeble muscles just by putting on display the horrifically monstrous gap between our levels of fitness. Oh, but I watched her. How I watched her. From the safe and distant perch of my spinning machine, of course. I noted that she glanced over at Pedro's run stats roughly every ten seconds. They weren't even sly, careful glances. They were blatant, prolonged glances, as if to say, "Think you can outrun me, boy? Outrun THIS." I found it peculiar, but then I remembered what my friend had told me about gym competition. She regularly has "battles" with other runners on the machines. Feck. That. Anyway, luckily Pedro's a very good runner and regularly finishes in top positions in all sorts of organized runs.

Ooh, Pedro just got back from the gym (I gave up early). He ran 10km in 39 minutes. He's a hero beyond my capabilities.

I do apologise, as this isn't a diary about my fitness regime after all, but I guess what I am trying to explore is whether accutane might be affecting my exertion threshold. I'll be honest: I've never had anything near an abundance of stamina when it came to exercise, and luckily I've also never felt the need to, but I usually don't feel quite so at the mercy of death afterwards.

Now, before I order a Swiss Chalet, I'll leave you with the declaration that I wish for the three to four beasts on my right cheek to promptly vacate. They've developed hard shells now and are sitting on me like miniature tortoises, so I guess it's not too much to expect them to drop off in the next day or two. The thing is, I'm covering reception at the company I work at for three weeks starting this Thursday, and the last thing I need is for colleagues to start addressing me in the plural. Other than this, el face-o is shaping up quite nicely.

*Sigh*

Love to you all, pretties.

P.S. My actual job couldn't be further from a receptionist. I'm doing this as a favour for my uncle, who is one of the heads of the company and got me my actual job in the first place. I know what you're thinking, and to that I say: meh, a little nepotism never hurt anyone.