Doc’s lack of pertinent message.
I really don’t know what to say today. I’ve been a bit busy with schoolwork and such.
Maybe I’ll just recommend “I’ll live my second life!” …which like the name suggests is not about a reincarnated person, but about a neglected princess (technically queen) cross-dressing to become a knight. It’s pretty excellent, though the chapters are short.
Today’s music is Offenbach’s Cancan.
Enjoy, please?
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Chapter 5: Fourteen Hours of Reality
~ Part 2: Mens Sana(?) In Corpore Sano Et Spatula Gloriosa ~
Good day to you, friends. Let us now continue our light sidestep into the realm of the already happened… also known as “the past”. A realm where good resolutions are often pronounced, yet rarely followed through in the present.
This is the story of how I met your mother… sort of.
* * * * *
After feeding the Black Panther… err… I mean… After feeding the cat, I set to prepare a delicious meal for myself…
…is what I’d like to say. But seeing the fat animal stuff himself with pâté was giving me a bad conscience over my own increasing plumpness.
I’m not a very athletic person. That’s an understatement. But I usually do exercise a bit every couple day or so… Mostly I do it to pretend I ain’t letting myself completely rot away. And I ain’t… much.
However, if I really wanted to stay in shape, I would just pick up judo again.
Although, saying judo would get me back “in shape”... I’m a bit worried in what shape that is supposed to be. I can only hope “human” shape.
Because, of course, I would have to go to the dojo of the Jakande Fitness Club, owned by Daniel and Yasmin’s parents. The dojo where Yasmin is. And, as I might have mentioned previously, my handsome childhood friend has this very unique and… erm… personal interpretation of the resistance threshold of… well, of limbs in general.
It has been proven that the structural integrity of most vertebrates’ body tends to disagree with said interpretation. My structural integrity has certainly been disagreeing. Loudly. And often.
The simple thought of her causes my hand to reflexively massage my left tight. Painful memories of last Saturday come to mind. During my punitive session with her, she was most faithful to herself.
The doctor assured me the bone was only bruised, but I don’t trust doctors. Except Mom, to an extent.
Anyway, even with the slight throbbing in my leg – which is growing worse now that I’m once again aware of it – and despite my empty stomach’s cries of agonising protests, I resolutely turn away from the fridge and walk back into the hallway, moving towards the bathroom.
I stride inside and look at myself critically in the full-length mirror riveted to the fake metal wall. I’m already in my boxers because this is all I wear when playing UT – in the sanctity of my home at least. Like I already mentioned, I live alone. I’ve got no reason to be embarrassed nor anybody to impress.
McLeon doesn’t count because he’s a nudist himself.
Animals are all naked. Think about it next time you look at your beloved pet licking their genitals before licking your hand.
Back to the topic.
If I had to describe myself in one word, physically speaking, I would say “average”.
Not “forgettable average” as in “people lose you in a crowd” kind of average, but the “…meh?” average that any normal human being without any blatant physical defect reaches upon adulthood and when they make no particular effort to appeal.
I’m not ugly. But I would be hard pressed to call myself handsome.
Average, really. That’s the right word. I don’t plan on changing that any time soon either. Too bothersome. I gladly leave the handsomeness to likes of Daniel and Yasmin, monsters who were born to radiate sex appeal over their fellow lesser humans and make them feel bad about their little embonpoint.
Me? I radiate happiness and joie de vivre!
I’m jolly!!!
Mwahahahahaha!!
*cough*
Really though, I could stand to lose a few pounds.
Right now is the end of January. Last Xmas, followed by a month of exams and a week of school break essentially spent unmoving inside my capsule haven’t been kind to my overall circumference. I still have a good safety margin before entering the dreaded realm of “fat people” – and become a target for Ricky Gervais’ acid humour – but this is a slippery slope.
A greasy slope even.
Shut up, smarty pants.
Now that I have the resolution to actively search for a girlfriend again – because I do – I need to start paying a bit more attention to my figure.
Granted, with my current social life, or lack thereof, I’ll most probably meet her in-game first, which gives me some leeway.
However! There isn’t any time like the present!
Vade retro procrastinas!
Plus, if I don’t start taking care of myself at times like these when I feel at least some motivation, I’ll either never start or do something I’ll regret later. Like asking Yasmin for help.
*shivers*
Anyway, I didn’t come in the bathroom just to admire my curves into the mirror. Nor am I going to try and cross it to Wonderland.
I raise my eyes to the pull-up bar riveted to the wall, between the mirror and the door. I’d like to precise, I didn’t install it for myself. It was a demand from Yasmin, should she spend the night. She gets antsy when she doesn’t do her morning routine. And people get hurt when she’s antsy. And by people, I mean me.
With a sigh, I lift my arms and grab the horizontal metal rod, then pull myself up.
“One…”
I let myself down.
You do that often.
Shush.
.
Up.
“Two…”
Down.
.
Up.
“Three…”
Down.
.
Up.
“Four…”
Down.
.
.
Up.
“F-Five…”
Down.
.
.
.
Uuh-uuup!
“Siiiiixsss…!”
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DOWN!!
.
.
.
I’m regretting this already.
* * *
It was a short but rewarding session. Not only the pull-ups. I also included a couple abdominal exercises and also a few other things, which would actually classify as muscle-development rather than fitness training, but I can’t really go jogging with a bruised bone in my leg. Call me a wimp if you want. I don’t care. If you’d suffered from as many fractures as I have over the years, you’d be paranoid too.
And you’re lazy.
Shush. Since when are you the voice of my conscience anyway?
Since your physical fitness became a factor of potentially getting laid with a real girl for once.
Is that all you ever think about?
You tell me.
I shake my head in consternation and it causes droplets of sweat to spray around. It reminds me I also should go to the hairdresser. My hair has gotten a bit too long for my tastes. Long hair for men was a fad a couple years back, but it always made me extremely uncomfortable so I tend to avoid letting the mop over my head grow too much.
I pull a lock from my temple and bring it inside my mouth. Yep. Definitely too long.
Suckling on my hair, I drop my soaked boxers on the tiled floor then step into the shower.
The hot water is pure bliss against my skin. I wash the sweat and grim off my body while enjoying the near scalding sensation. I stretch widely. A groan of pleasure escapes my lips. I don’t like exercising in general, but there is an undeniable sense of bliss in feeling every muscle in your body aching and throbbing painfully after a good workout.
I lower the water temperature progressively, from hot to warm then eventually reaching the abysses of cold. Not yet freezing cold, but enough to send shivers through my limbs and make me recoil reflexively. I sigh in contentment.
“Nothing like cold water to make you feel clean and refreshed.”
I rinse the last remnant of soap and shampoo, then quickly shut the tap and exit the shower, grabbing in passing a bathrobe hanging from a tentacle-shaped hook on the wall. After drying myself up, I return to the living room. Retro-pop from the twenties is filling the air and Bruce McLeon, alias “the Obese Squatter”, is sleeping on the couch, taking up two-thirds of it by himself and leaving no place for me.
Poor me.
I sigh, searching the room for someone to sympathise with my – mild – hardship. Nobody in sight. Of course. That’s the fun thing about living alone. And being single.
I really should drop that line of thoughts.
To distract myself from this slowly growing bad habit of self-pity, I look around at the customised decoration again. I’m quite pleased with what I’ve done with the place, even though it was a very good place to begin with.
This apartment has a fairly large living space that doubles as a dining room, a separated kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom with both shower AND tub, a second toilet and a few closets here and there. And all of this near the city centre and with a nice view of the river.
You’d really ask yourself why is half the building devoid of inhabitants…
…
……
………
Errr… actually, that’s a very good question.
Why is this block so empty?!
On this floor alone are five perfectly good apartments. Yet only Mary’s and mine are occupied. Which also raises the question of why were we allocated to adjacent apartments, but that’s another issue.
“Mmmh. Odd… Really odd…”
I’ll have to ask Vincent about it.
Who’s Vincent? Oh, he’s the landlord. He is a calm, nice old man with a – mostly – honest personality, though he’s a bit of an opportunist I believe. He plays UT too. I was the one to introduce him to the game. He doesn’t really like violence, so his character is an herbalist fairy – a male fairy. He owns a small but thriving shop in the capital city Start.
He also happens to be one of the few people who know my identity as the notori– famous Elric Walker, the Reckle– WANDERING KNIGHT!!
…
…Why? What have I done to deserve this??
Haven’t we been over this already? Well, if you insist… This might take a while to answer. Should we start with the A’s…?
I hate you.
Aw~ But I love you too, kiddo.
Reputational considerations aside, I’ve been really careful not to let my real identity leak anywhere online. There are some really fucked-up people out there. I wouldn’t want to attract weirdos to my door.
It’d be a good way to attract chicks though. The only downside is you’d have to sort through the crazy fans and people who want to punch your teeth out… except of course if one of these two groups tickles your fetishes?
Yeah…. How about “nope”? Not going to do that.
Oh? And why so categorical?
Hime-chan.
Ouch. Point taken. Not leading the insane pyromaniac to your home does sound like a good idea. Alright. Abort plan [Become Famous for Ass]. Let us be stealthier than ghost ninja in the evening mist.
…What kind of useless plans are you even hatching?
The kind that gets you chicks.
Like an egg?
That’s not the same kind of hatching.
Why are you doing this?
I’m sexually frustrated.
I don’t even follow.
Stop trying.
*creeeak*
The distinct creaking of the mail slot echoes through the apartment, followed closely by the sound of paper hitting the parquetted floor of the hallway.
“Well, think of the devil.”
But I’m always there?
…Should I call the Vatican?
Please refrain from any rash action.
Anyway, the devil I was idiomatically referring to is actually Vincent the Landlord.
Every day, Vincent personally delivers the mail to the few residents. He himself lives on the ground floor. His “Postal Jogging”, he calls this little routine. Right. And I am Queen Victoria of England.
“Postal Jogging. Pffff. Yeah right.”
I’ve always been fascinated by all the idiocies people come up with to pretend they exercise. When really they’re as much couch potatoes as I.
It is my intimate conviction that the majority of mankind is fundamentally lazy. Only, society wants us to feel guilty about it.
Screw you, Society.
Yeah!
Still clad in nothing but my aquamarine bathrobe, I make my way across the hallways and pick up the probably useless mail.
“Who still writes letters anyway?”
Mumbling, with the envelopes in hand, I open the door.
The cold morning air of January strikes me like a flying iceberg. Unlike some other buildings in the neighbourhood, here the flats take up the entire width of the floor. There so “eastern” side and “western” side. That also means the front doors lead to open walkways, for some reason.
Did they lack the budget for one last wall?!
Though I’ll admit it is rather nice in summer.
Shivering, I glare at the clouds beyond the concrete parapet, then look to the right, in direction of the stairs. I catch the sight of a skinny back drawing away at a regular jog-ish pace.
“A good morning to you, Sir Mayor, O esteemed landlord! My utmost gratitude for your postal favours, as usual!” I shamelessly shout, with little regard for Mary-next-door’s hangover. Or her one-night-stands’.
I think I hear something crash against the common wall between our flats – probably someone’s head from the cry of pain that follows – but I ignore it.
Stopping in his tracks, the landlord turns around while jogging on the spot. He waves and answers in a cackling voice.
“Good morning to you too, crazy kid!”
“Hahaha! Who’re you calling a kid?! And please do not overexert yourself! For I dread the day I shall hear that your pacemaker finally failed you! What a tragedy would it be to see you replaced… by someone who would actually ask of me the full rent!”
Vincent truly is a kind old man, but not so kind he’d normally offer a tenant any discount. However, we have a little win-win arrangement going on.
“Haha! Continue to find me useful formulas, young knight, and I this old man will continue to let you off easy.”
That’s the deal: Vincent’s herbalist character in UT gets exclusivity for any original plant and/or plant-based recipe discovered by Elric Walker, and in compensation Nicolas Siegel has the privilege of seeing a portion of his rent shaved off.
Unfair? Maybe. But what are connections for, uh?
“Worry not, dear sir,” I reply with overacted deference. “Worry not. I am a man always in quest of the unknown and unique!”
“Hehehe. Good. Good…” He turns away and start again towards the staircase.
I’m about to walk back inside, when I remember my earlier musing.
“Oh! Vincent!” I call out, dropping the flowery speech. “Can you tell me why there are so few people in this place? I don’t see you spatting on more rent money.”
This kind old man has, after all, a heavily business-oriented mind. I think he once told me he used to own a large real estate company, before retiring, leaving it to his son, and taking residence in one of his properties as the landlord/concierge.
“That? Oh. It’s because of the murders.”
“Ah, yes, right,” I nod to myself, “the murders. That explai– WHAT?!”
But the old man is gone.
…
……
………
I stay stunned on my doorstep, blinking slowly, until a sneaky gale reminds me I’m still naked under all that terry cloth.
Oh, well…
I shrug, then hurriedly close the door. I walk to the living room and casually throw the mail on the table, before stepping back into the lab. The clock indicates a quarter past ten. I decided to make crêpes. Why crêpes? No particular reason. Besides that I’m hungry and crêpes are yummy.
And thus, I set to work, still naked, and dancing tentatively to Offenbach’s Cancan, graciously provided by RMS. My actions are rewarded by a circumspect and vaguely pitying gaze from McLeon.
Firstly I check the pantries and the fridge for ingredients. I don’t want a repeat from last week. Plus, Dan isn’t here to go fetch my groceries this time.
Thankfully, today I am adequately stocked.
“So, for crêpes… I neeeed…” I twirl around and reach for a cupboard.
I usually like to prepare a bit more than necessary. That way, when I’m not in the mood to cook, when someone drop by unannounced and expect dinner in the minute, or when I just want a snack, I can just re-heat leftovers.
But because I really love to cook, leftovers often end up fillings more than half of my fridge.
I retrieve a bag of flour, put it on the counter and clap my hands happily.
“Alrighty~”
In a measuring jar, I prepare 250gr of simple flour. I fetch two eggs and a carton of milk from the fridge, then go through a couple drawers and gather a bag of salt, one small package of baking powder and one of vanilla sugar. The vanilla sugar really isn’t necessary. That’s just a little extra.
The last ingredient would normally be butter, but personally I prefer to use groundnut oil. That’s how my grandma does it. And one does not simply question grandma’s cooking.
Of course, I need to be careful who eats the crêpes then. I’m not too sure how someone allergic to peanut would react to groundnut oil. If you’re not sure about your guests or yourself, butter might be the safest option.
If you’re allergic to milk though, I really can’t help you. Try soy milk? I make no guarantee on the result.
In the measuring jar, I mix the eggs to the flour – after breaking the eggs you fools! – and whisk them together using a fork. I empty the full content of the vanilla sugar packet, but only use a teaspoonful of baking powder. That stuff’s powerful.
A pinch of salt and then, after switching to an electric whisk because I’m a lousy housewife, I start gradually adding the milk. Up to no more than half a litre. I want to eat crêpes. Not drink them.
I complete the recipe by adding five tablespoons of the peanut oil, then I keep the whisk going until the batter is smooth. Next, I approach the stove and turn one induction plate on.
This is where things start to heat up.
From a cupboard, retrieve the dangerous, menacing, ominous weapon known as… the Frying Pan!
A tool of slaughter that loses in dreadfulness only to the infamous Rolling Pin.
I’m sorry Grandma. Please, I won’t steal from the cookie jar ever again! Please, don’t hurt me! Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
“NO!! NOT THE FINGERS!! NOT THE– Ah.”
Sorry. I got distracted for an instant. Where was I? Oh, right…
I oil the pan with some more groundnut oil. Not too much. Don’t want to ruin all that whisking, now don’t we? With a ladle, I scoop out the batter and pour it onto the pan. Do not forget to tilt the pan in a circular motion so that the batter coats the surface evenly. Do it properly. Otherwise your crêpes will look like they’re from Soviet Russia.
Where crêpe eat you.
Da.
I cook it for about a couple of minutes, waiting for the circumference to become a light brown. Next is of course the other side.
Now, here’s normally the moment you’d use a spatula to turn the crêpe over.
But! For an experienced – amateur – cook like me, of course I’m going to flip it like a boss.
I lightly shake the pan to make sure to dislodge the crêpe, tilt it slightly forwards, then abruptly bring it up with a swift jerk of my wrist, launching the flat cake into the air.
Perfec–
“…Eh?”
How weird. I thought the crêpe sticking to the ceiling only happened in movies.
…
Guess I was wrong.
…
I probably should have stopped dancing while doing this.
Abyssum abyssus invocate.
When I’ll want your opinion…
…
……
………
Alright. Where’s that spatula?
* * * * *