So I got really drunk the other night — I mean shithammered to the point where I thought Dragonforce sounded good — and I began to inspect my posture. Right angle, using my bathroom mirror, at fifteen paces.

You know how you’re supposed to breathe through your nose? Turns out when your posture is actually good you’re rendered unable to breathe via your mouth anymore without huffing and puffing like something is deeply wrong.

I realized that I didn’t just have to contract my abs, I had to lengthen them. The upper pack had to rise, the lower two had to descend, and by god when I understood I had to make that entire group as long as possible my hips rotated forward of their own volition! My glutes tightened, my heart quickened, and although I was worried it would look like I was emphasizing my peener my center of gravity still continued to rise. I gained at least a quarter of an inch.

Still, when I glanced in the mirror, I couldn’t yet see my own true form. I failed to resemble the Adonis statue I usually dwell uopn when I lie in bed at night; I merely looked like I was going to demand to speak with a manager. Summoning my aura, I didn’t just pinch my blades — I drove them into the ever-loving, God-fucking ground. Fuck you, body! How could you have withheld these several postural insights from me throughout my twenty-seven years contesting gravity itself?

My soul rose resplendent, ascending into the popcorn ceiling above me. I gained another fifth of an inch.