oh, little undergrad, with your scrawny self and your shiny tracksuit and your grunting and flailing and clanging the weights together with your efforts. how you wanted to look big and tough; i saw you struggle mightily with those 60 pounds, not stopping to consider that your poor form might limit your weight training prowess.
and oh, even scrawnier undergrad, with your moppy uncut hair and your sleepy drool on the left elbow of the chest press as your slack jaw rests on the machine rather than actually lifting anything. i hope you had peaceful dreams of nietzche and schrodinger.
oh, high-topped black basketball shoes and the black socks that accompany you... how happy i am that finally you have found a home where your fashion statement is not stigmatized, but rather is celebrated by the pasty white calves that love them so. the peasant dresses and military jackets with whom you associate are waiting patiently in the locker room for your return.
who needs magazines on the stationary bike? i mock because i love, my friends.
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