Seriously, can we just talk about the ego in this city? I'm floating through the high-end, "oh-look-at-my-chiseled-jawline" streets of Paris, and I drift into "L'Elite Physique." It's the kind of gym where the air is 50% sweat and 50% unadulterated vanity.
And there he is Pierre.
The "Broccoli-Loving" Narcissist. Pierre was posing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, wearing a tank top so tight I'm surprised his veins didn't just decide to leave his body in protest. He was surrounded by a group of wide-eyed teenagers, feeding them his usual "Discipline is My Religion" speech.
"Listen, boys," he said, flexing a bicep that looked like it was carved out of overpriced marble.
"This physique is a temple. Every morning, I eat nothing but organic egg whites and steamed, blessed broccoli. I truly pity visionless losers like you who gorge on croissants and then ask, 'Coach, why can't I see my abs?' It's embarrassing, really."
