I swear to God, if that little shit of a balance board insinuates that I'm fat or uncoordinated one more time, I'm going to throw the damn thing out the window. I mean, for Chrissakes, I put on 200 grams and the bloody thing more or less calls me Jabba the Hutt. Never mind the fact that my BMI is still in the 'ideal' range - apparently, 'ideal' isn't good enough. So far as Mr. Balance Board is concerned, you're either a perfect specimen of virile athleticism, or you're a fat retard. There is no middle ground.

Now, the trainers - they're fine. They tell you when you're doing poorly, sure, but they also compliment you when you do something well. With the balance board, it's just constant sneering abuse. It's like training with a Russian gymnastics coach or something.

You know what I'm gonna do now? I'm gonna go eat some cheesecake. For spite.