My discovery of T-mag caused a great epiphany. An adulthood of assimilation and toleration of the non-T world has caused me bewilderment as to how these sad sack panty waists muster the fortitude to function. The idea that I am some sort of other species attempting to mingle with lesser life forms has assailed me more than once. I AM another species, T-man. The fact that there are other individuals in existence who refuse to accept the body they were given, whine about their lousy jobs, and bitch about their bland lives; who instead choke slam life until it is gagging and blue and force it to behave on their terms or die trying, gatifies me to no end.
I am not the only guy who wears headphones and stares at the floor between sets, and feel like the baddest dude on the planet when I have just squatted a weight that was previously impossible to me and lie on the floor afterwards thanking God that I am alive and I am me. People who love it when they are labeled as obsessed and strange by obese hedonists and myrmidons. Others do exist who know the God-like feelings conjured when a member of the opposite sex checks out your walnut cracking ass, asks to feel your arm, or chest, or even your throbbing T-sword. The simple knowledge that others experience the surge in their bellies when they train, or score, or make an A on an exam, and know that this T makes life worth living, restores my faith that the human race may indeed survive and prosper. Please accept my long-winded entry into the Testosterone nation, of which I have been an unknowing citizen.