Where most workday rat racers would awaken to the caustic shock of their 6 AM alarm, I now rouse from my slumber to the sounds of idyllic angels. Bounding from my bed, I relish in a refreshing Zest-commercial-worthy shower, slip into my best Puma-wear, and float out the front door, protein shake in hand. And what, you make ask, would cause this normally nocturnal Neanderthal to morph into an early-to-rise effervescent individual? The caffeine-free stimulant is none other than my eight-pack abdominaled, perfectly pectoraled, buoyantly bubble-butted, tight-tank-top-wearing demigod of personal trainer, Bryan.
Bryan, you're the anti-love of my lovehandles and the salvation of 6-pac. My bicep is healing. I can cardio, once again. Weight lifting is only a few weeks away. Save my bloated body, Bryan. Save me!
Gay cruise, 56 days and counting... Help!
WeLCuM 2...
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