poor fuckers

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Another day, another yoga class. I thought it was very challenging in a physical way. The classes would make me sweat a lot, which didn’t really seem to fit in with the general atmosphere: soft light, relaxing music, esoteric concepts that I didn’t understand. As far as I could tell, the sport seemed to be dominated by women.

Anyway, about those esoteric concepts: there was one instance where our yoga teacher told us to be thankful to our bodies. I didn’t understand what she meant. It was my body, so my body was me – how could I be thankful to myself for anything?

I was still thinking about this question when I suddenly found myself looking down at my feet. There they were, looking so fragile. These poor fuckers had carried me more than eight thousand kilometers from Beijing to Mashhad, and I had gotten angry at them many times when I felt that they underperformed.

No, it wasn’t fair.

Outside it was still cold as hell, and the wind was blowing. A cigarette ad seemed to suggest that if you inhaled smoke that would damage your lungs, then young women would somehow end up in the back of your car and take off their clothes for you:


The world was full of poor fuckers.

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