Exercise sucks.

I’ve come to realize this after making a New Years resolution to start working out as a way to manage my intractable depression and general state of fatness.

I have to say I’m not a fan. Not at all.

I announced my plan via Twitter: I started exercising because I want to be less of a fat bastard and more of a regular bastard. It’s awful. I have coworkers who talk about it like it’s a wonderful hobby. The hell is wrong with them? Don’t get me wrong. They are good people. Except the ones who murder. #HelpMe

I was immediately bombarded with words of support from exercise fans who follow me on Twitter.

Thanks, guys. Really.

For the record, my exercise resolution is the only one I’ve kept. The others, which I won’t go into, lasted promptly five minutes after midnight Jan. 1.

Also for the record, I’m pretty sure some of my coworkers murder. That wasn’t a joke. Some days it’s hard to do good work with this knowledge. I myself refrain from murder. Property crime has always been my wheelhouse.

Anyway, exercise is awful.

I’ve spent 39 years abusing my body with fast food, booze, drugs and cigarettes along with a lifestyle so sedentary, rocks swing by my house to take notes.

It’s been 15 years since my last drink, but I refuse to discuss my drug use prior to 9 o’clock this morning. I’m a year clean off of cigarettes — wonderful, smelly cigarettes. I have allowed myself, if absolutely necessary, to suck the nicotine off of coworkers’ fingernails.

Fortunately, it hasn’t come to that.

During the past two weeks, I’ve taken to walking at a brisk pace on a treadmill inside the free gym at my apartment, about 25 to 30 minutes at a time or until I faint. The exercise/torture machine allows you to watch videos of Mediterranean beaches, Central Park, etc. The makers of these videos should produce one where you are running for your life from zombies or angry cattle. The Running of the Bulls would be cool. It would add a sense of urgency.

Another good idea: a video where I’m being chased by an overly amorous Scarlett Johansson, Ashley Judd or Penelope Cruz. I’d also accept Zac Efron. I find him uncomfortably handsome. …

Moving right along. The poison from cigarettes that I smoked in 1997 are being released back into my blood. I’m pretty sure booze was also trapped in my body somewhere, because after hitting the treadmill, I usually cry and call my mom in the middle of the night

I’ve learned that I have two things in common with the Unabomber. We both live in Colorado, and we both wear a hooded sweatshirt well. The other people working out in the gym usually leave as soon as I show up. I promise you: I’m not here to take down industrial society. I just want to lose the love handles. I …

Oh my god. Did I just write an exercise column!? I’m going home.

Read more Bear: Stalk him:

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