What Cundishun My Cundishun Is In TLDR: Got an actual condition, didn't let it fatify me, now I hate the cundishuns excuse crowd with the fire of Satan's post Chipotle farts Long, pissed off, god damn the fucking fats all to hell's bariatric ward, rant ahead. Cundishins! You all know them. PCOS, hyper/hypo/hippothyroidisms, and what not. I've heard it all. Personal trainer after the Army. Got saddled with brokedick squad, remedial PT, wherever I was when I was in. "But Sarn't! Muh shin splints!" Weh. "The tape method for body comp is stupid!" Weh. "Why do they even let there BE donuts in the chow hall!"  Weh. Fucking. Weh. Well, I just got diagnosed with some shit that I'd never thought possible that apparently I was damn lucky to have lived through. Hell, lived with untreated for over a decade because it was never diagnosed, I'm lucky with all the shit I've done that no one with this injury has any business doing hasn't wrecked me WAY worse than I am. I'm not the brightest crayon in the sandwich, and I don't want my internet history becoming evidence in my lawsuit, against me. So forgive my lack of specificity. Don't even know if that's a thing... but, like I said, I'm not the sharpest light bulb, and I'd rather be paranoid. I'm comfortable disclosing that I went from able to lift, run, work and play every day to now, I'd, at very best, walk with a cane, but that would set my arm on fire. And I'll be god damned if I use what should be meant for people like me, but has been turned into manatee scooters at the grocery store, so I just suck it up.  According to doctors, I should have been in traction for months when it happened. I got, vets know it! Motrin. Fucking Motrin, and treatment of an unrelated misdiagnosis as a result of failure to perform a test my current doctor said any first year med student would have known to give me... and according to current diagnosis, I should have been medically discharged, not finished my tour untreated... or do another tour... and another... and then spent a decade power lifting. All of which made it worse, but I never knew not to do it, because, herp derp, Army docs are retards. Now, I could just keep eating like when I could lift. Aw, yuh, I'll catch the fat, bu-bu-but muh cundishin! Or, today for breakfast I had a bowl of spinach. Plain, unsalted, delicious... please Jesus, let it start being delicious if I delude myself saying it enough... spinach. I had kale for breakfast yesterday. I will consume less than 1400 calories today. Because I don't want to be able to occupy more than one zip code. The motherfuckers who want to cry about "I can't lose the baby weight!" (I know a tiny little sub hundred pounder with 4 kids) or cry "But muh bad knees!" (tell that to the dude who ran the Boston marathon with one leg asshole) and use it as an excuse for being a lard ass used to merely disgust me. The 350 pound guy with diabetes who thought an all apple crash diet was a good idea. The female soldiers who called it sexual harassment to have it insinuated that they were fat, when they were, and of course it's sexual, because to call them fat is to call them not sexy... what the actual dick shitting fuck sauce... Used to just disgust. Now I'm actively enraged to a point I don't even go out unless I HAVE to so I don't see them everywhere. Could go on, but this is already suitable for publication in multiple volumes... Point is, it's a choice. Stephen Hawking is in that damn chair, and he ain't a whale. I went from hard charging gym rat to relegated to potato status, and I refuse to turn to a gelatinous, asexual lipidosaurus. You all call it CICO. I call it Shut the FUCK up and STOP EATING. FFS, unless it's a metastatic, rapidly growing tumor in your gunt, I can't think of any ailment or disease that causes FUPA-itis. Diseases are wasting... check out the chemo crowd dammit. Sorry for long rant, I'm just fucking frustrated as fuckin fuck, now knowing from personal experience how right I've REALLY been all along. People telling me, "You can't know what I go through." Uh, well, yes, you flapjack assed potato sack, now I do, and turns out I was right, you amorphous trundle-monster. And don't think I'm asking for sympathy or thankses for service. My brokedick ass WILL recover, and if this means I can't lift, I'll fucking run. If they say the impact is too much, I'll cycle. And if all exercise gets off the table forever (not likely, but just saying) well guess what, I'll just eat a caloric restriction forever. Fat is as disgusting as it is because it's a visual representation of a person who has said, "I give up," and so help me, I will never give up.