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This Is War: Kris Gethin's Workout Journal

Before I train, I get my thoughts on paper. They're not pretty and they're not nice. They help me destroy myself again and again.

The members of the so-called gyms I tour are fixed to uniform bar codes—they have no identity or fight in them. They spew such stark contrast to how I feel when I barbarically, mentally walk the line. The gym is on my terms when I reside in or rent its space. I salivate at the pastel environment, because it pushes me further into my reclusive, abusive behavior. Bring it. I'm going to own this shit.

The gyms I enter are museums of bodies that attempt to turn me soft. They can't spread their bacteria. I am resistant to the artistic equipment designed to make movements easier. I laugh at the silhouettes of mediocre men. Who are these mannequins trying to kid? I see them bleating away with no talent for torture. What wilting flowers they have become.

This Is War

When I create my path to the weights, my mind is on one thing—anything or anyone else is the enemy. Don't get me wrong: I'm not talking down to you or looking through you if you distract me from my workout. I'm putting pressure on myself to perform. Every one of my workouts will be survived by my life of hunger. I am a mechanical animal with no emotion but controlled and calculated rage. In 45 minutes, this animal will be caged until its next appointment with pain.

I stare at my hands knowing they are about to break the weight they'll manhandle. My mental preparation is so intense I can almost see my pain reflected in them. I can feel the waves of consequence manifesting muscle beyond recognition. I look forward and predict the struggle of my workout. It keeps me honest with the incentive to always drive harder, lose the fucking light weights, feel the gravitational pull of struggle, cut though consequence, and brutalize the body with conflict.

If the weight isn't big enough, make it heavier through intensity. If a plateau visits, send it off by going bigger and harder. I look at my hands again. They will be strong because it's time to hold tight. Focus again. Hold fucking tight!

Caged Rage

As I pace between my sets, I think of myself as a regressing primitive animal prowling its natural environment before going in for the next kill. I go harder and longer than any porn star with something to prove. My workouts are supposed to wreck me into contemplation and pain. I self-mutilate so you and society don't get the opportunity to hurt me. As tough as the workouts are, they are the best times.

I keep looking at the floor between sets because I can feel people stare. Go ahead, judge my mechanics by my tattoos—they are only the superficial tracks of the scarring I impose on every single muscle fiber. I have no familiarity with my workouts because I go to a darker place than the one before. DTP takes no prisoners, only death tolls. I never give my body a right to live beyond these 45 minutes. It's the only way it can appreciate the aid of relief and recovery. Without this sacrifice, there is no resurrection.

Stay Hungry

I think back to some of my workouts and they make my bones hurt. I think forward to the workouts that await me and my bones hurt. I embrace my hurt. I have been having an affair with her for more years than I remember. She doesn't play me, and I don't fool her. We are the perfect match. We feed off each other.

After my workout is complete, I erase any achievement. I do not revel in previous glory. Don't live through your workouts to exist; live in them to evolve. Don't be a weak program of motion—feed your body via catastrophic destruction. If you go to the gym to socialize, your girlfriend should deny you access. Who are you going to be today? Are you going to live in fear, or are you going to do what you fear?

Laugh at my form, question my natural abilities, and ridicule my tattoos, but take another look at your reflection. Have you made your gains, found your future physique, or carved your dreams? Don't question me if you haven't answered these questions for yourself.

Days off from the gym are essential, but they suck. I crave the roar and nakedness of the animal purity. The gym is where I live, and everything else in between is a cultural dead zone. Don't feel for me; I'm content. The gym is where I fill my glass with domination, intensity, and euphoria. I drink by the barrel.

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