Dipshit drunk on pink perfume

What a shining example I would be, right? Worse, certainly, than Atlas or Rocky, but far better at least, certainly, than you. While I may not be doing many clean and jerks these days, I do glisten and gleam each and every morning come rain or shine. Beading on my body, sweat hints at the sea churning within, fueling me like a hydroelectric plant, my muscles flexing less for display than out of a necessity to hold back the deluge like a sinewy dam trying its damnedest not to break. But what — or is it who — manipulates the maelstrom within me? You can taste it on my teeth, lift it from my lips, or rip it from my throat if you must, but you already know. Yes, you move me. But I am not the only one with choppy seas inside. The same ocean sloshes inside each man on this humble planet, even the lesser specimens among us. Like all oceans, yours too must obey the will of the tides, so you might want to get a bigger boat... because even your tidal forces are lunar, and I am the man in the fucking moon.