Kismet.

(These are pokey sticks. They are basically like sticks of pizza that covered in absurd amounts of cheese that you get delivered to your dumb room that come with multiple sides of ranch. Its box NEVER fits in your tiny fridge so it just kinds of sits on the floor, congealing, and then it’s also breakfast, and then it’s also lunch.)

Match. Made. In Heaven. As follows:

Super nice, Super Ripped Personal Trainer: Hi, so how can we help you today?

Me: I don’t know, I’m just kinda bored with my workout and I feel like I’m wasting time when I workout and there is such little time, like in life, and I’m also tired of constantly trying to lose ten pounds and not really doing that at all and I’m tired of wasting that brain and emotional space because I’d really like to fill it with other things that are not Chips. CHIPS! so I figured if I gave you the $800,000 you require to train me I’ll be so ridden with guilt and panic over all of the money that I just gave you that I might actually make some progress? Also, hello.

Personal Trainer: Nice monologue. I can help ya. Where ya from?

Me: North Carolina.

PT: ME TOO!

ME: NO YOU’RE NOT.

PT: I AM, I’M FROM ASHEBORO!

ME: NO YOU’RE NOT!

PT: I AM! I WENT TO UNC CHAPEL HILL AND STUDIED THEATER!

ME: ME TOO!

PT: OH MAN, I GOT SO FAT AT UNC!

ME: ME TOO!

ME / PT: ALL OF THE CHIK FILA AND ALL OF THE POKEY STICKS, OH MAN WE WERE SO FAT

ME: WANT TO BE MY TRAINER FOREVER?

PT: OKAY!

ME: HERE IS MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF MONEY!

PT: OKAY GREAT NOW LIFT THIS MASSIVE THING NINE TIMES! TAR!

ME: HEEEEEELLLSSS!

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