About a month ago, I sat in my darkened, smoke addled bedroom, illuminated only by the ember of my cigarette and the vibrant colors of my favorite music downloading software jumping off the screen and mixing with the smoke in the open air of my room, dancing together in bliss, knowing that the two forces cannot stay together long, for they are doomed to be apart, not unlike Tommy and Gina in the Bon Jovi songs. My bloodshot eyes overlooked this forbidden union; they were far too focused on looking for new ways to kill time on the Internet, the finest way to avoid any form of physical exertion or human interaction, two pet peeves of mine on a day off..

Before long, I caught myself nodding my head rhythmically to the sounds of Air Supply's hit, “Even the nights are better.” I figured it would be a good idea leave the house immediately, before the remainder of my self esteem flew out the window for a ménage a tois with the exhaled smoke and color trails. Air Supply can only sound good when one is trapped in the comforting labyrinth of procrastination. (I wasn't trapped, I was just too proud to ask for directions)

I decided to hit Baxter Boulevard, a 3 and a half mile circle the fit people run, fat people fear, and people like me go to, to watch boobs bounce. Hey, at least I'm honest.

I do a combination of both walking and running, I walk the majority of it, until I see sexy girls coming, then I start running and pour water over myself to feign the hard earned sweat. Damn, I'm busting my ass here. I think the girls would actually find my performance believable if I didn't have a beer in the other hand or a lit cigarette in my mouth. So what if I'm rough around the edges, I'm working on it. I'll bring an O'douls next time.

Honestly, I found myself enjoying the endorphin rush awarded to me upon completion, and I've stuck to this regiment of self-improvement. It's great to know that I'm getting fit and tan just in time for Thanksgiving. My timing is flawless. Happy Easter.

But this constant repetition has raised a pertinent question. How is running around in circles any different than a hamster running in a wheel? People leave their car, run around in a circle to do what? Arrive back at their car. They then reward themselves by washing their bodies with hot water and soap. A hamster gets in a wheel and runs around like a moron for an extended period of time, then get soap poured in their eyes. After some consideration, I've concluded that yes, it does suck to be a hamster. Just ask Richard Gere. His hamster is in a beauty salon somewhere with Divine Brown, complaining about the utility expenses at their summer homes.

Exercise is a key element for not just a healthy body, but for a healthy mind. This column has taken me way too long to write; I'm guessing that it's a newer, more positive outlook for me, which sucks. I'm not a 'glass is half empty or half full' kind of guy, I'm more of a 'glass is missing, must be stolen and I'm about to pelted over my head with it' kind of guy, which has churned out rather enthralling mediocre observations, if I don't say so myself. I'd pat myself on the back if my arms weren't so sore from doing six pushups. Just do it.