I was having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad day so I went over to the gym and beat up the boxing bag. It took more than an hour but, eventually, whaling on an inanimate object restored my ability to glean something besides self-serving bullshit in myself and other human beings. Boxing is a solution I happened upon while working at Us Weekly. That place was like a pressure cooker containing all the second prettiest sorority girls–you know, the ones who compensated for their insecurities by terrorizing each other–and if I hadn’t worked out a healthy outlet for my rage I probably would have pulled out someone’s bad dye job (possibly mine) by the root. Or simply evaporated in a pool of abject misery. While working on my left hook this afternoon–no joke, I was blasting Public Enemy at the same time–it occurred to me that fewer women might suffer from eating disorders and depression if they just externalized the crap out of their anger like good ole red-blooded American men do. At the very least, everyone should experience the high of fucking something up every once in a while. The act of striking is a very specific pleasure. So let’s get get this party started right/ Fight the powers that be.