Bicep Curls Before Bamboo

Bicep curls before bamboo.

In competition with each other. One does fourteen, and the other musters that fifteenth rep. One rep of domination. Stella on the go.

Pint-size cans at the co-op. £3.99 for a pack of four, 2014 shit. “Shake That” blaring.

The delicate balance between sober appearing drunk and fucked appearing drunk. We arrive at the club.

“Just at our flat mate.” is our answer.

We enter, order and separate. As we all know, women love random men who appear to be in a club by themselves, walking up to them. We weren’t just random men comfortable with solitude; we were random men comfortable with solitude that had done over ten bicep curls a few hours prior. Unbeatable.

A reunion in the smoking bit. Skadging fags, just wanting to talk. “Did you pull?” asks one to the other.

“no.”

We return to our battles but end up home with donner meat. Our bodies magnetically pulled homeward as well as to the dinner.

A poorly rolled drunken joint. Music playing, angry neighbours.

What a life.

You can stop reading now.

Cheers