Beach Bodies (in spoken word) - David Fasanya and Gabriel Barralaga
Transcriber: Andrea McDonough
Reviewer: Bedirhan Cinar
I don't know about you, but I'm trying to get this beach body, that P90X, Brad Pitt, Bradley Cooper, Tyrese, Trey Songz, Matthew McConaughey beach body! I'm trying to sweat in front of everybody. Word. And get that shorty with them Angelina Jolie lips to lick my torso, get me looking like a wet chocolate. Look at my biceps. They're kind of puny. They're kind of chunky. But I've been working on them. We can be models. I could take off my shirt mad sexy. I could stare at a camera intensely for 37 seconds straight and not blink. I could bathe in baby oil. I could run on the beach in slow motion. I could cat walk down a runway in zebra panties. I can't do that. Having a slow metabolism ruins everything. All my friends will be in tank tops, and I'll be in a hoodie. I'm good at zipping up my insecurities, thinking I could sweat them out. I'm trying to get this beach body! I'm too skinny. I guzzle junk food like my mouth's a garbage chute, but my intestines are allergic to trans fat. I want to be a flexing horse leg, galloping beach sand into a red carpet, customized for me to strut the shore side like a centaur on a conveyor belt. I'm trying to get this beach body, but there is salvation in snack closets, on licked plates of seconds, at the bottom of a pint of ice cream. I use Haagen Dazs as a morphine cylinder because she said my arms weren't strong enough to carry her. I think I'm weak. I think I'm fat. I think I'm ugly. The beach is no place for a whale like me, for a mini van with its tank on E. I want to be Baywatch bareable, broken, bottle-cut, have you seen my muscles and my scars?
You smell that? That's macho moisture. My hour-long work out routine consists of 5 minutes of push-ups on my bedroom floor, a denial mirror repelling my lanky limbs; 5 minutes of keeping my chin high over the bar of self doubt; 10 minutes placing 100 pounds of failure on my chest so it becomes the elephant in the room; 10 minutes jogging with ghosts chuckling at my chunky thighs, and I'll smile, knowing I'll soon be able to fit in my old butt pants; 30 minutes thinking sweat is a masculinity cloak. And I'm weary from trying to work out my irrational fears, drown them in a puddle of perspiration, shove the imperfections I should be proud of under water: my gap-tooth smile, my frizzy hair, my funny shaped head, the extra weight that kept me grounded, the missing pounds that make me a kite flailing free through the wind, not bound by muscle. So, yes, I'm trying to get this beach body, that Channing Tatum, David Beckham, LL Cool J beach body! But we're tired and exhausted from trying to be something we're not.
I don't know about you, but I'm trying to get this beach body, that P90X, Brad Pitt, Bradley Cooper, Tyrese, Trey Songz, Matthew McConaughey beach body! I'm trying to sweat in front of everybody. Word. And get that shorty with them Angelina Jolie lips to lick my torso, get me looking like a wet chocolate. Look at my biceps. They're kind of puny. They're kind of chunky. But I've been working on them. We can be models. I could take off my shirt mad sexy. I could stare at a camera intensely for 37 seconds straight and not blink. I could bathe in baby oil. I could run on the beach in slow motion. I could cat walk down a runway in zebra panties. I can't do that. Having a slow metabolism ruins everything. All my friends will be in tank tops, and I'll be in a hoodie. I'm good at zipping up my insecurities, thinking I could sweat them out. I'm trying to get this beach body! I'm too skinny. I guzzle junk food like my mouth's a garbage chute, but my intestines are allergic to trans fat. I want to be a flexing horse leg, galloping beach sand into a red carpet, customized for me to strut the shore side like a centaur on a conveyor belt. I'm trying to get this beach body, but there is salvation in snack closets, on licked plates of seconds, at the bottom of a pint of ice cream. I use Haagen Dazs as a morphine cylinder because she said my arms weren't strong enough to carry her. I think I'm weak. I think I'm fat. I think I'm ugly. The beach is no place for a whale like me, for a mini van with its tank on E. I want to be Baywatch bareable, broken, bottle-cut, have you seen my muscles and my scars?
You smell that? That's macho moisture. My hour-long work out routine consists of 5 minutes of push-ups on my bedroom floor, a denial mirror repelling my lanky limbs; 5 minutes of keeping my chin high over the bar of self doubt; 10 minutes placing 100 pounds of failure on my chest so it becomes the elephant in the room; 10 minutes jogging with ghosts chuckling at my chunky thighs, and I'll smile, knowing I'll soon be able to fit in my old butt pants; 30 minutes thinking sweat is a masculinity cloak. And I'm weary from trying to work out my irrational fears, drown them in a puddle of perspiration, shove the imperfections I should be proud of under water: my gap-tooth smile, my frizzy hair, my funny shaped head, the extra weight that kept me grounded, the missing pounds that make me a kite flailing free through the wind, not bound by muscle. So, yes, I'm trying to get this beach body, that Channing Tatum, David Beckham, LL Cool J beach body! But we're tired and exhausted from trying to be something we're not.
 – David Fasanya và Gabriel Barralaga){kind=link}