I crashed into his fist pt. 2

The bike ride to the gym takes me about twenty minutes, fifteen to ten if I'm riding fast, usually I am not. My bike, after a year of dicking around with it, is finally comfortable enough for these rides. The bike used to have constant problems with the derailer and the chain would frequently click in and out of gears. Eventually I stripped off the derailer along with most of the gears and made it into a simple single speed conversion. I even took off the free wheel, which is the mechanism that allows the cyclist to coast without pedalling. I did so in order to merge more into the mucky mire that is hipsterdom. My desire for upward mobility got me when I made that decision. As we all know its not about what you are, nor what you have, no, not anymore. What's important is what you appear to have, who you appear to be. Hipsters are notoriously, and nauseously middle class. Blending in with hipsters will get me more pussy. There's more cute hipster girls than there are cute girls that work at shitty burger joints. The restaraunt is just a baby step away from being McDonald's or Carl Jr's.
The gym I go to is located downtown. Its pretty old and in one of the more poor sections of town, which is part of why I like it. I actually passed it one day while I was running. I live about 15 blocks away from the gym in a shitty two bedroom apartment that I share with some dude I found off of craigslist. The gym is in an old wharehouse type building, which means there is a ton of floor space. It has a pretty large ring set in the corner, about ten heavy swinging bags, an open matted area, some speed bags, and a small weight room off to the side.
I'd checked out the gym a few times before I decided to go. My girlfriend had recently broken up with me because I drank too much and would get rather surly with her when I was drunk so I figured I needed something to preoccupy my time rather than with cheap domestic lagers. Now I don't drink so much but I need a girl to preoccupy my time with rather than my anxieties about fighting.
Its been six months since I first stepped into the gym and signed up for the muay thai boxing classes. Six months and a five day a week schedule at the gym. In the mornings I go running before work and then I work at the restaraunt from nine to five. I'd make more money at the restaraunts if I worked the nights and weekends but then my training schedule would be thrown off. I don't give a shit about the money anymore, it will just make help me appear like something I'm not. The more money I make the more money I waste. I've decided instead to just throw myself into training, into fighting. Besides I pretty much have a six pack, not the kind you drink now and bitches love that shit.
When I get to the gym I skip rope for about ten minutes before the class. The class starts at 6 and I usually get to the gym around 5:30. After skipping rope I'll shadow box for another ten minutes or so. In the mirror I'll pretend I'm fighting myself, or I'll practice my form. Sometimes I'll just look at myself and think about how good looking I am for an acne ridden burger flipper.
The class follows a pretty set routine, some jump rope, some stretching, three rounds of pad work with a partner, then three rounds of bag work. Afterwards I'll usually spar with someone, do more bag work, do sprints, or extra calenthestics.