Does Getting Healthy Kill Your Creativity?

Look, someone gotta ask the tough questions, alright?

And yeah, Like you, I woke up each day, dragged myself to the chafing station, ate bags of M&M’s at midnight, drank gallons of milk from an actual cow, and spanked the silver monkey far too often.

And yeah, I, too, dreamed of a better world where I wouldn’t wake up at night with my heart thumping like the speakers at a Carl Cox concert. I dreamed of living to the ripe old age of sixty-three and watching humans get massacred by robots in onesies.

But I could write. Damn, I could write.

Out of the Royal House of Shyster Shit Machine freely poured classic stories and rants that any state-committed sociopath would be proud of.

Yet I was told by several friends that my creativity was nothing compared to the one I would discover if I got ‘fit and healthy.’

My friend Terry Daniels told me he was feeling both healthy and creative until someone kicked his stick chair at a Coldplay concert, and he was left paralysed from the neck down. Many people said he had it coming for taking a stick chair to a concert.

Still, Terry was never one to get beaten down. Now, he does pull-ups using his teeth.

His point was that it is possible to be both healthy and creative simultaneously. It gave me hope.

So I listened to Terry and the others. I went and drank the motherfucking Kool-Aid, and look what happened.

I’m fucked, you bastards.

I never bothered with scales.

I measured my weight loss by how easily I could wipe my arse, and I have to say my anus is a darn site more accessible than it was two years ago — That’s how I know I’m becoming healthy.

I’ve been running on the treadmill several times a week. And yeah, I know you are visualising this obese pound of butter flapping around on the treadmill, but it’s not like that. I used to be a runner when I was young. I was good at it, too. I just got lazy and depressed.

I’ve still got some weight to get off. But I’m feeling pretty good. Yet, I’m still waiting for the world-stopping creativity everyone said would blow people’s souls, like Justin Beaver getting his cock out at the MTV music awards.

So where is it, you bastards?

Since I have been getting healthier, my writing ability has buried its pointy head further and further into the giant shit pile at the end of the world. And I am left trying to pump out articles that are as dry as a camel’s cock.

The trainer told me not to bother with cardio when I started working out. So for six months, I pumped iron like Henry Schwarzekniver four times a week and felt STRONG. Then I looked at myself in the mirror one day and realised I looked too much like Dwayne Johnson.

And yeah, my insta feed is just people pumping iron at the gym, swigging sweaty milkshakes, and sticking their damn titties in yer damn face.

But I realised that wasn’t me. I didn’t want a Hemsworth/Rock body like the one I was now staring at in the mirror. It was too intimidating for those around me. I needed more of a Ronaldo physique.

So I started running again. And yeah, sure, it’s wasted away all of that bionic man muscle. And does it make me feel good? Fuck yeah, it does. And honestly, if I had a nine to five job in a bank selling mortgages to young couples and ogling my co-worker Mandy who is wearing her Monday spectacles, there would be no problems here.

But the truth is, I’m fucking trapped, and the more I feel better in myself, the more my writing becomes like an old man trying to push out a shit on Wednesday morning after pie night at the local.

And I have to ask myself if I should go back to my giant bags of M&Ms and thrice-daily ejaculation. Should I drive myself back into hell to scrape up whatever crumbling relics are left of my slowly dying writing ability?

Or should I just keep writing dung that only a mother would want to read while I wait for this extended wave to crash, revealing the next phase of supreme creative madness?

Shall I believe that stoned bastard Gandalf when he says shit like

‘This too will pass’

OR the red tomato demon currently sat in the chair in the corner of my room smoking an unknown substance, wearing my wife’s ‘big’ knickers and saying,

“THOU SHALT NOT PASS FRANK T BIRD”?

OK, it’s me.

It’s me wearing the big knickers and smoking, okay?

Are you happy? I’m the fucking tomato demon.

Please send help. Or, as the so-called Trekkies say:

Help me 1B1KOlON-B. You’re my only hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope. Blkk Blerp.

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