The Olympics is owning me. I eat, sleep, and breathe live text updates. Because of a horribly twisted confluence of technology-related circumstance, we cannot stream anything from anywhere in a time when all of the biggest television providers are raving about their 100s of hours of live coverage now available online. The rest of England, however, must be streaming every second of the Olympics because our connection speed is horrendous. Live morning finals for the convenience of the American public and us sitting in that awkward timezone between Beijing and the eastern seaboard have conspired to leave me fighting unconciousness for the rest of the day.
Having been inspired by the swimming feats in the Water Cube, I finally hit the gym last night. It was a really good feeling for the first six hours while my body was in shock from the sudden onslaught of exercise; less welcome was the ravenous hunger that made up all hours between breakfast, tea, lunch, tea, and dinner today, and even less welcome, the deluge of guilt following my high-calorie cravings, all of which have finally been sated after a huge KFC dinner. In the words of the immortal Donald Duck, "Ah phooey."
On other fronts, I am getting better at foosball and will one day beat the German and the American.
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