Dear Diary. I've been to the gym four times this week, plus I went to an indoor rock climbing center once too.

I'm the ideal person for working out and exercising. This is for several reasons

• I don't have a social life, I have zero friends in Girona. Yes, that's sad, but it also means no distractions from the number one priority of working out and getting big muscles like Captain America
• I don't drink alcohol so I don’t get hangovers
• I don't smoke my lungs are still healthy, or at least as healthy as they can be after growing up in the polluted streets of Birmingham
• My body is well-suited to exercise. It's tall, lean. Plus I don't have any injuries, thanks to my risk-averse lifestyle and pussy-like attitude to anything dangerous.
• I have a ton of sexual frustration (Girlfriend and I haven't had sex for eight months now, and counting) which I can vent in exercise. By thrusting my crotch into the air
• My hair has mostly fallen out due to male pattern baldness, so my only hope of looking attractive anymore is by having big muscles
• I am self-employed and choose my own hours so I can go to gym classes in the morning and afternoon when everyone else is toiling away in soot-stained factories
• I spend all day at home alone and the only way I can get anywhere even remotely close to socialising is being in a gym class

By the way, in the past, I was dangerously skinny at 59 kilograms, but now I weigh 77 kilograms, which is the most I've ever weighed. It's an achievement for me, that. I'm putting on weight. I'm eating more and it's paying off. I had two hot dogs one night, for example. TWO.

Why is putting on weight so hard though? I actually feel jealous of all the fat people walking around. Like, I want to be big too! Not fat-big, but muscle-big, but still.