WHOOP is not just a personalized digital fitness trainer!

it’s over. The little boy is asleep and his temporary bed in Vestibul is painted with a light sea fog on the beach.

A few hours ago, although the house was not unusual, it was a small wild boar.

Sending a dozen or more ’em, I was later told that men with artificial cannabinoids and girls holding a bottle of pink muscato, whispering loudly, spinning and laughing and dancing and sweating, are all sweating hell. Mango Tango and Watermelon Wave come out of the vape pen.

The men appear to be stronger, less dangerous, devil-worrying characters, drinking and smoking more than most M’s can. As the night wore on, the sprawling pools, with their delightful sketches, adorned the garden.

A baby beats its artificial limbs more than it should, drinks too much, listens, is shocked, and the heart is pounding.

Looking for inspiration in these lonely walks, I am doing my midnight bonds as the party pours on the grass in front of me, exploring various mistakes and repeating their feasts.

Someone is calling for an ambulance.

A boy falls on the grass in front of him.

You can do anything.

He says it is his heart.


I put two fingers on the normal heartbeat points.

I am not a doctor. It sounds fast. 120 or 220?

who knows.

I opened the app by wrapping my fingernails on the WHOOP and wrapping them around the boy’s little wrist.

Heart beats 140, wild wild beats.

Does he have a heart attack?

I ask the other children if he had any pills.

No, no, no, no, no, they are a chorus.


I tell them it’s time to be real. It could mean keeping your friend alive. If it is pills, the baby is going in an ambulance.

They swear it is weeds and weeds.

It is a good sign.

Doing something and gaining a little knowledge is the key in these Sorta conditions, my friend visiting the sailors. The simplest thing to do is to get rid of fear, to take a step back and to review issues.

I grabbed the boy’s head, holding a reassuring hand on his back.

I told him you were smart.

I see the heart rate stabilize at 140 and the thorns decrease.

Gradually, he sank to sixty, sixty-five, less than 100, when the weed shock turned into a deep sleep.

An elderly neighbor said that the baby could sleep in the front of the joint. We find the number of the parents and call them. Thirty are far away.

I will stay with the boy until his parents come, and now I am monitoring my heart rate at fifty-nine.

Many thanks, shakes hands, and so on.

But I had to snatch the personalized digital fitness trainer from my wrist.

There is a limit to this good Samaritan humiliation, right?