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They say atrophy can affect your brain too. I think mine's on strike sometimes. I'll be in the middle of a conversation, and suddenly my brain decides to take a coffee break. I'm just left there, staring into space, hoping the other person didn't ask me anything important.
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Atrophy is proof that even our own bodies are fans of the "out of sight, out of mind" philosophy. I neglect my muscles, and they decide to shrink away, as if to say, "Fine, if you're not going to pay attention to us, we'll just disappear.
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Atrophy is like the passive-aggressive roommate of the body. It's sitting there, silently taking up space, turning your once mighty biceps into slightly deflated balloons. I feel like I need to apologize to my muscles for neglecting them, like, "Sorry, guys, I promise to use you more, just don't disappear on me.
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You know, I recently learned about atrophy. Apparently, it's when your muscles shrink from lack of use. I realized my brain must be atrophying too, considering how often I forget where I put my keys. Maybe I should start doing mental push-ups or something.
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Atrophy sounds like the name of a villain in a superhero movie. Picture this: "In a world where muscles are under constant threat, one man must defy the odds and battle against the evil forces of Atrophy!" Spoiler alert: the hero's kryptonite is the elevator, and he's constantly avoiding the stairs.
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Atrophy is like the body's version of a Netflix subscription you forgot to cancel. You look in the mirror, and your muscles are giving you that judgmental stare, like, "Are you still watching? Because we're not doing anything here.
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I realized atrophy is a sneaky little thing. It's not like it announces its arrival with fireworks; it just creeps in quietly. One day, you're flexing in the mirror, feeling like a superhero, and the next day you're struggling to open a jar of pickles.
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Atrophy is the ultimate procrastinator's excuse for avoiding the gym. "I'll start working out tomorrow," I say as my muscles roll their eyes and prepare for another day of inactivity. It's a vicious cycle, really – my workout plan has more false starts than a bad sitcom.
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Atrophy is like the body's way of saying, "Congratulations, you played yourself." I lift a bag of groceries, and suddenly I'm winded. It's like my muscles are staging a rebellion, protesting against the unexpected physical activity. I guess I'll just stick to arm exercises – lifting the remote and waving goodbye to my fitness goals.
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