Plague of Strength

I propose something different, and something eminently more satisfying. Rather than declaring war, in essence, on yourself, declare war on the weights. I take shit from no motherfucking weights. Every time I set foot in the gym, it’s a fucking battle royale, and I usually come out on top. I might have an off day, but I never walk around asking my friends stupid fucking questions like “Do I look small, bro?”, which never fails to annoy the shit out of those around you and make you look like an attention seeking retard. If you’re rocking and shocking the weights, rather than your muscles, you know you own shit every time you enter the gym, and that you are the fucking master of your domain. Additionally, you’ll marshal your forces against a common enemy (your muscles against the weights, retard), which will ever fail to achieve success, though it is a war of attrition at times. Viewing lifting like a war on your muscles is ridiculous, since it makes you think of your own bodyparts as the enemy, which turns your aggression and negativity inward, rather than outward, against the weights. Chase the weights, rather than the muscle, and the muscle will come. You’ll also be super fucking strong to boot. Finally, by chasing the weights, rather than the muscle, you’ll play to your own strengths, creating a physique unique to you, rather than a cookie cutter physique that looks like every other asshole on Earth who wants to look like Ronnie or Arnold. Instead, channel your inner Pudz, or Poundstone, or Kroc, or Rezazadeh, and get your physique to the extreme it can achieve while maintaining its individuality, your pride (ecause you’ll be as strong as your fucking look), and your sanity.
Now stop reading shit online and go be superhuman, motherfucker.

PS- You can’t confuse a muscle. It’s got no brain. Food for thought.

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