My face is leaner.
No filters, no smoke, no mirrors.
Just sweat, saltwater, and the slow grind of actual effort. No, I don’t have a six-pack yet—but let’s not pretend that means I’m failing. I’ve dropped over 10 kilos without losing a shred of muscle, and last I checked, that’s what progress looks like.
I’m kayaking almost every morning, boxing the rest of the week, eating like I give a damn, and waking up every day with a clearer mind than I had the year before.
The six-pack?
It is coming. Give it until June. Maybe earlier if I keep getting this many things to be pissed off about—it’s great for cardio.
And no, I am not complaining. I have seen what complacency looks like. I’ve seen the guys who traded resilience for excuses. That won’t be me. I’ve got a war chest of discipline, and it’s paying dividends.
One scar at a time.
I wake up most days to the unbearable torment of salt air drifting off my own private stretch of sea. The sun—obnoxious as always—rises over the water like it's showing off just for me. I sip my coffee watching it, disgusted by the luxury of silence. Then I drag my miserable self into a kayak and punish my body across ten kilometres of glassy water. Sometimes I stop at an island, take a swim through coral like some rich hermit with a guilt complex, and wonder how much more of this peaceful hell I can take.
When the sea’s had its fill of me, I farm. God help me, I farm. I grow things I can’t find in stores because apparently I’ve decided mediocrity in produce is a personal insult. I build polytunnels, grow perfect European veg, bananas I don’t eat, sugar palms I barely name right. I pay locals far more than they’d get anywhere else, let them take what they want, sell it, eat it—whatever. I don’t care. It grows. They grow. We move on.
And then there’s the food—because of course I make my own beef stock. Hours boiling marrow bones because stock cubes are a war crime, and I'm not surrendering flavour to convenience. Ten kilos down, no muscle lost. I box. I paddle. I lift. I work. And when I’m not doing that? I ride a big-ass motorbike that growls like a thunderstorm and tears down the road like freedom strapped to a rocket.
I’ve got the sea, the work, the wife, the pain, the sweat, the land, the wheels. Balance, maybe. Rage, always.
So if you want to try and mock me by telling me how terrible my life is, go ahead.
I don’t give a fucking damn.
The bloody sky doesn’t even know what colour it’s supposed to be anymore. One minute it’s bleeding burgundy like some cheap pinot noir got drunk and threw up across the clouds, the next it’s blushing like it got caught skinny dipping in lavender. Pink, orange, mauve, a hint of regret, and something that looks suspiciously like shame. It’s a watercolour tantrum from a god who couldn’t pick a palette.
And I’m just here, watching this mess of heaven’s moods swing back and forth like it’s trying to figure out if it’s sunset or a hallucination. Pastels. Every damn day. No consistency. No respect for monotony. Just indecision smeared across the sky like the painter got bored halfway through and threw the brush into the sea.
And you know what? It’s perfect.
So to all those trolls living on scraps in someone’s basement—probably their mum’s—scratching together enough to pay for their Steam account and buy another five minutes of crappy video game life between trying to taunt me: oh, boo fucking who.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Apr 10, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1910176742070976894?t=g9JnmcRGaWpQYKLfkrnkRw&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2828
No filters, no smoke, no mirrors.
Just sweat, saltwater, and the slow grind of actual effort. No, I don’t have a six-pack yet—but let’s not pretend that means I’m failing. I’ve dropped over 10 kilos without losing a shred of muscle, and last I checked, that’s what progress looks like.
I’m kayaking almost every morning, boxing the rest of the week, eating like I give a damn, and waking up every day with a clearer mind than I had the year before.
The six-pack?
It is coming. Give it until June. Maybe earlier if I keep getting this many things to be pissed off about—it’s great for cardio.
And no, I am not complaining. I have seen what complacency looks like. I’ve seen the guys who traded resilience for excuses. That won’t be me. I’ve got a war chest of discipline, and it’s paying dividends.
One scar at a time.
I wake up most days to the unbearable torment of salt air drifting off my own private stretch of sea. The sun—obnoxious as always—rises over the water like it's showing off just for me. I sip my coffee watching it, disgusted by the luxury of silence. Then I drag my miserable self into a kayak and punish my body across ten kilometres of glassy water. Sometimes I stop at an island, take a swim through coral like some rich hermit with a guilt complex, and wonder how much more of this peaceful hell I can take.
When the sea’s had its fill of me, I farm. God help me, I farm. I grow things I can’t find in stores because apparently I’ve decided mediocrity in produce is a personal insult. I build polytunnels, grow perfect European veg, bananas I don’t eat, sugar palms I barely name right. I pay locals far more than they’d get anywhere else, let them take what they want, sell it, eat it—whatever. I don’t care. It grows. They grow. We move on.
And then there’s the food—because of course I make my own beef stock. Hours boiling marrow bones because stock cubes are a war crime, and I'm not surrendering flavour to convenience. Ten kilos down, no muscle lost. I box. I paddle. I lift. I work. And when I’m not doing that? I ride a big-ass motorbike that growls like a thunderstorm and tears down the road like freedom strapped to a rocket.
I’ve got the sea, the work, the wife, the pain, the sweat, the land, the wheels. Balance, maybe. Rage, always.
So if you want to try and mock me by telling me how terrible my life is, go ahead.
I don’t give a fucking damn.
The bloody sky doesn’t even know what colour it’s supposed to be anymore. One minute it’s bleeding burgundy like some cheap pinot noir got drunk and threw up across the clouds, the next it’s blushing like it got caught skinny dipping in lavender. Pink, orange, mauve, a hint of regret, and something that looks suspiciously like shame. It’s a watercolour tantrum from a god who couldn’t pick a palette.
And I’m just here, watching this mess of heaven’s moods swing back and forth like it’s trying to figure out if it’s sunset or a hallucination. Pastels. Every damn day. No consistency. No respect for monotony. Just indecision smeared across the sky like the painter got bored halfway through and threw the brush into the sea.
And you know what? It’s perfect.
So to all those trolls living on scraps in someone’s basement—probably their mum’s—scratching together enough to pay for their Steam account and buy another five minutes of crappy video game life between trying to taunt me: oh, boo fucking who.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Apr 10, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1910176742070976894?t=g9JnmcRGaWpQYKLfkrnkRw&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2828
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