Episode Details

First rule of inter dimensional time traveling…

DON'T.

I smelled like an old, wet bandaid. My heart wasn't in it anymore—looking in the mirror for progress after nearly a month of extreme training and dieting, i could feel the difference, but not see it. Perhaps it was the result of sleeping under the white devil, or just the lack of good coffee since departing from Mexico—still, something was off about my energy, in the way that I was moving about my day to day—or, I should note, the way that I was barely moving—I seemed to be under a spell of mediocrity and apathetic listlessness, emotions and passions welling up in an uncontrollable, irritating and chaotic fury; i was lost from love.

I hugged a tree in the entryway to the parking lot if the gym; it almost seemed to hug me back—and, in the broad daylight, I fought the will to lay my head down in relief, as if she had offered me a shoulder to cry all the tears that I needed; behold, however, the tears would come indeed, as I barely tried at the pectoral machine or whatever it was. After selecting Daft Punk's Discovery Album as the track for my first circuit, One Last Time bellowing into my sweaty earbuds as tears streamed down by face—without having to address it in too long, I realized I missed my son; not that it mattered. My ex husband was the evil everything that had ruined me—or rather, I was the evil thing that ruined myself by loving him. At least I was no longer nearly 400 pounds—not that it mattered. The leftovers made it impossible for me to go about my life acting as if nothing had happened; I couldn't wear almost anything without bulging and unsightly rolls. Being dark skinned might not have been so bad, as long as I could be perfect—maybe that's why every rapper bragged about fixing up girls in exchange for sex; it was too bad I wasn't attracted to black men enough to let that happened. Maybe I was supposed to have taken the bait of my brother and law while living in his home in Las Vegas—I could have had the all access pass to driving one of his three Mercedes, and maybe even lucky enough to have had my skin reduction surgery sponsored by the drug money he boastfully prided himself on, being a “business owner”. But no, I had let my own pride neglect his underhanded proposition; He couldn't fuck be, but even almost a year later, at least had the benefit of making me feel stupid for not taking advantage, obsessing over my body to a point that anyone would clearly consider unhealthy.

I occasionally would look up at the screens in front of whatever machine I was working at, wondering

“What the fuck am I watching?”

As always, I knew if it was FX, it was assuredly something captivating—I didn't need more than its logo to be reminded of my once-obsession with Kurt Sutter's writing, demolishing Sons of Anarchy episode by episode once weekly for years, and repeatedly bing watching The Sheild until I could recite each episode word for word, and understand the happenings of any given season In Portuguese.

Fuck this.

For some reason, it was Rihanna's hit Only girl In the world blasting over the loud speakers after the conclusion of the Daft Punk album—that made me quit and call it a day; I had only been on the floor an hour and a half, which anyone would call a good workout, but to me it felt like giving up—like I was weak; but something about Rihanna's voice had allowed the picture of her perfect, skinny silhouette from the cover of one of her albums, or maybe a single (I didn't know, as I had never really considered myself a fan of hers, even though I could admire her vocals, and did recall with vivid conclusion cycling at least two of her hits on repeat in my high school days) but either way, I had probably always harnessed a deep disgruntlement and bitterness towards her, not simply for being about the complexion my mother constantl