Yesterday, after a class at the Sweatbox, the instructor encouraged me to "have compassion in yourself"—THAT'S how bad a class I had. She went on to point out that at least I hadn't run screaming out of the room—which is true, I hadn't run screaming out of the room. But man, when you're in a Bikram yoga class (yoga in the million-degree room) and things go south, things really go south. It's really hard not to think, I'm in hell, this is hell, look at all these other people and me together here in hell. I hadn't been in a long while, admittedly, and I've gained weight since I'd last been, and I've been extra stressed out lately, and blah blah blah, but last night I felt like I was going to explode.

Bikram yoga used to be my favorite thing ever; now, every time I do it it stirs up so much weird shit inside it makes me sick. Four years ago when I got promoted to editor of The Stranger and wanted to blow off some stress I went to the Sweatbox and that night woke up covered in my first case of human bubble wrap, i.e., hives. Last night I left covered in shame. I'm kinda thinking it's time to break up with Bikram.