u/thespeedforce5

It feels like whenever the tone of Grand Theft Auto VI comes up, the community immediately treats it as a zero-sum game. If you suggest the game might have a more grounded, mature world, people assume you want a “boring realism simulator” where all the fun is sucked out. But the seriousness of the story and a fun sandbox are not mutually exclusive. Yet, for some reason, it seems like a portion of the player base just cannot separate the two. Why do we act like a game can't have an emotionally heavy narrative while still letting you have fun in the open world? This doesn’t just apply to the story but to the world as well.

**TL;DR:** Rockstar’s modern philosophy seems less concerned with adding features for the sake of freedom and more concerned with making the world, mechanics, and story reinforce the same ideas.

Before anyone jumps to the comments, this isn’t me saying GTA VI should be a certain way, or that I want it to be a realism simulator, or that fun and freedom are somehow bad. This also isn’t me saying the game won’t have chaos, humor, or plenty of sandbox freedom. It’s simply an observation about the direction Rockstar has been moving in for years and how GTA VI appears to fit into that trajectory.

I think a lot of discussions around the game get stuck on features in isolation. Will there be more interiors? Better AI? More activities? More freedom? Those things matter, but I don’t think they’re the first questions Rockstar asks anymore.
Red Dead Redemption 2 is probably the clearest example of this philosophy.

Almost every aspect of that game served the themes of the story. The heavier movement, the slower pace, the grounded interactions, the way violence had weight to it. Those design choices weren’t arbitrary, nor were they simply there to be “realistic” for the sake of realism. They were there because they complemented the story Rockstar wanted to tell. Even the way the world reacted to Arthur all reinforced the feeling that you were playing as a man living through the end of an era and slowly coming to terms with his own mortality. The game feels the way it does because the world and the narrative are speaking the same language.

Because of that, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that everything we’ve seen from GTA VI also points toward a very specific tone and direction for this game .
The official description says:

“Jason and Lucia have always known the deck is stacked against them. But when an easy score goes wrong, they find themselves on the darkest side of the sunniest place in America, in the middle of a criminal conspiracy stretching across the state of Leonida — forced to rely on each other more than ever if they want to make it out alive.” That description immediately gives me the impression of something more intimate and more desperate than previous GTA stories. It’s not just about climbing the criminal ladder or chasing money. It sounds like two people being dragged into something much bigger than themselves and struggling to survive it together.

“the darkest side of the sunniest place in America” is really interesting because it suggests a constant contrast between appearance and reality. Leonida may look vibrant, glamorous, and full of life on the surface, but beneath that image there seems to be something much uglier, corruption, exploitation, organized crime, and people trapped in situations they can’t easily escape. If that’s the story Rockstar is telling, then I think the world itself is going to reflect it.

I expect Leonida to feel more layered and more dangerous than any map they’ve made before. Not necessarily darker in a visual sense, but darker in what exists beneath the surface. The beaches, nightlife, and social media culture will probably exist right alongside places and people that feel genuinely threatening. The NPCs may feel more reactive and believable because the world itself is supposed to feel more alive and more grounded. The antagonists could end up being more morally complex and intimidating because the story seems to be dealing with larger systems and institutions rather than just colorful criminals.

Even Trailer 2 gives little hints of this direction. Obviously, trailers are edited together from scenes that may not be directly connected, but it’s still interesting that they chose to place certain lines next to one another. Brian tells Jason, “They got your name, your address, they got everything, man,” and then the next scene includes a police officer saying, “Us cops, we got to protect each other.”
That sequence creates a certain impression. It suggests that Jason and Lucia may not simply be dealing with isolated criminals or a few heists gone wrong, but with something much broader and more systemic. It hints at a world where institutions, criminal organizations, and personal lives are all intertwined in ways that make the situation feel inescapable. Whether that’s exactly what the story turns out to be remains to be seen, but it gives the impression of a more conspiracy-driven and personal narrative than we’ve seen before.

The thing that interests me most, though, is Jason and Lucia themselves. Niko had Roman. Arthur had the gang. John had his family. Jason and Lucia seem to have only each other.
That’s a very different emotional foundation for a Rockstar story. If the entire plot revolves around two people trying to survive while the world closes in around them, then the stakes become much more personal and much more intimate than simply pulling off another score.
And if their relationship truly is the emotional core of the game, it makes sense that every other aspect of the experience would be shaped around it. The world, the tone, the mechanics, and the way danger is presented would all benefit from reinforcing that feeling of vulnerability and dependence.

A lot of people still seem to view GTA through the lens of unlimited freedom being the primary goal above all else, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But I think Rockstar’s recent work suggests they’re pursuing something slightly different now. They seem far more interested in creating worlds that feel internally consistent and emotionally coherent, where the story, the mechanics, and the setting all reinforce one another instead of existing in separate lanes.

That doesn’t mean GTA VI won’t be fun, chaotic, or full of freedom. It just means those things will likely exist within a more intentional framework.

Everybody I knew doesn’t text, call, check up on, or even invite me to anything. I doom-scroll through my phone and see people progressing and living their lives while I’m stuck. I live in an immigrant household and have been taught to internalize my emotions because as a boy I’m not supposed to show any negative emotions or cry. Now I just feel a cold ache in my chest until one day I sob so bad I can’t breathe. I don’t know where I’m going with this or what I’m even talking about but I just wish I felt like I had value. I wish that I didn’t live the same day everyday. I go to the gym, I started 2 months ago and I don’t feel better emotionally, I don’t feel more self confident, I just feel empty, the same pit that has always been there but has now consumed me. I want to feel loved, I want to know what it feels like to be part of a group. I want to genuinely know what it’s like for others in your life to voice how proud they are of you, to compliment you for you to believe it. I just hate being alone. I hate me

I’m a 22-year-old guy, and I’ve been dealing with an ongoing issue at the gym that’s really starting to wear on me. Every time I start a workout say, on the preacher curl machine there’s almost always an older man, usually in his 60s or 70s, either on a machine directly in front of me or standing by the water fountain, just staring. And I don’t mean a casual glance or the kind of people-watching we all do at the gym. This is an intense, steady, unbroken stare, often paired with an expression that feels , stern, or oddly hostile. It’s unnerving. At first, I tried to shrug it off and act like I didn’t notice, but that didn’t stop it. Lately I’ve resorted to giving a dirty look or a side-eye that clearly communicates my disgust, just to get them to back off. Even then, the relief is only temporary, because the whole environment is starting to feel hostile in a way I didn’t expect.

And that’s just the main workout floor. The locker room is where it really gets uncomfortable. Some of the older men in there have absolutely nothing on completely naked and they stroll around without any apparent shame butt booty naked, sometimes sitting right on the bench with no towel underneath them. I find it unhygienic and completely unnecessary.

I get that communal nudity in locker rooms was more normalized in past generations, but the culture has changed, and most people today make at least a minimal effort to stay covered or use a towel when sitting. What’s strange is that it’s only the older guys who behave this way. Nobody else at the gym stares like that, and nobody else parades around the locker room naked with zero consideration.

I know this kind of unwanted staring is something women deal with all the time, so I imagine a lot of women will immediately understand the difference between harmless people-watching and a prolonged, unfriendly stare that makes your skin crawl. My question is: how do you deal with people and situations like this?

I’m posting this from a long-stay hotel off Jamboree Road right now. My hands are trembling pretty badly, so excuse any typos or if this is disjointed. I honestly don’t know where else to put this. If I post it on a standard medical or legal sub, it’ll probably get flagged or deleted, and I just need to get it out of my system because I haven't slept in two days.

I’m 28, and I’ve dealt with sleep paralysis since college. If you’ve had it, you know the drill. You wake up, can’t move a muscle, feel a crushing weight on your chest, and your panicked brain floods your half-dreaming state with shadows or distorted noises. I’m a software engineer pretty logical, grounded. I’ve always understood the mechanism: REM atonia lingering past consciousness. Knowing the science made it bearable. You just wait it out. It’s never real.

Six months ago, I rented a single-story tract house on a quiet cul-de-sac up in the Orchard Hills area of Irvine. If you know the area, you know it’s sterile, safe, aggressively master-planned. Every house repeats itself in beige and terracotta, the streets curve in identical lazy arcs, and the whole development backs right up against dry, brush-choked foothills and those massive concrete storm drain channels that snake for miles under the subdivisions. You can hear coyotes sometimes at night, but that’s about as wild as it gets. I work from home and just wanted somewhere quiet to code in peace. The place was small, clean, with a two-car garage, laminate floors, and an attic access panel in the hallway ceiling that I never touched.

For the first couple months, everything was completely normal. Then things started getting weird, but in a mundane, easily dismissible way.

I’d buy a loaf of bread, and a few days later, a third of it would be gone. Not a neat slice missing just torn chunks. I live alone. At first, I convinced myself I was just losing track of what I ate, maybe making half-asleep sandwiches during 2 a.m. coding binges and forgetting. Then a jar of peanut butter was scraped almost clean, smeared on the inside of my trash can lid. One afternoon, I went to grab leftover Chipotle chicken I’d put at the back of the fridge the night before, and the entire container was missing. I found it two days later shoved behind the water heater in the garage, licked spotless, the plastic lid cracked.

I genuinely thought I was sleep-eating. I was working 14-hour days, completely exhausted, and figured the stress was manifesting as some kind of dissociative nighttime behavior. I even bought a kitchen scale to track food weights, but I kept forgetting to use it because I was so burned out. I rationalized everything. The tiny dirt smudges on the pantry door? My own hands after hiking in the foothills on a Sunday. The faint, stale odor that would come and go in the hallway? Old house, poor ventilation. Nothing to worry about.

Then the sleep paralysis episodes started again. But they felt wrong from the very first one.

Usually, I just feel a generic sense of dread. But that night, I woke up frozen around 3 a.m. and immediately smelled something awful. It wasn’t sulfur or rot just a dense, organic stench of wet, dirty wool, old sweat, damp earth, and a metallic, copper tang underneath. Like a moving blanket that had been sitting in a car trunk for years, soaked through and crawling with something.

I was stuck flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. Then I heard a sound at the foot of my bed. A tacky, peeling noise on the laminate flooring. Click. Slide. Click. Like someone lifting a sweaty leg off a leather chair and putting it down again, slow and deliberate.

I couldn’t move my head. I could only strain my eyes downward in the dark. The foot of my mattress compressed. The memory foam sank in, and I felt the bedframe creak faintly through my heels. Whatever it was, it was heavy just a dead, unhurried weight, like a sandbag settling into place.

It crawled up the mattress, straddling my legs. I remember desperately telling myself it was just an episode, a hallucination, that my brain was projecting stress onto the canvas of sleep paralysis. But the weight kept moving, up onto my stomach, then my chest. It felt like someone had poured a sack of wet cement onto my lungs. Breathing became a shallow, painful struggle.

Then I felt its breath. Hot, shallow, and carrying a sour, vinegar-like stench of severe dental decay. Not theatrical rot, the specific acidic reek of a human mouth that hasn’t been cleaned in months, living on sugar and whatever else. A bead of lukewarm liquid fell onto my collarbone and rolled slowly down toward my neck.

It lowered its face until it was inches from mine. In the faint orange glow of the streetlight bleeding through my blinds, I could see it clearly. It wasn’t a shadow figure or a demon. It was a person.

A woman, entirely naked. Her skin was a sickly, yellowish-grey, leathery and caked with dried mud in the creases of her neck, elbows, and knuckles. She was severely emaciated I could see the sharp, geometric ridges of her ribs pressing against her skin like a wire hanger under a thin cloth. Her hair was mostly gone, just stringy, greasy clumps stuck to a scabby, flaking scalp. She had no teeth at all; her mouth was a dark, wet void, gums raw and purple, glistening. Her eyes were wide open, completely unblinking, and totally clouded over with thick white cataracts. Milky, sightless, and fixed directly on my face.

Because of the paralysis, I couldn’t close my eyes. I was forced to stare into those blind, wet orbs.

She opened her mouth wider, tilted her head like a curious animal, and pressed her face against mine. She started licking the sweat off my skin.

It was a slow, methodical, rhythmic scraping. Her tongue felt dry and rough, like a cat’s but heavier, wider, dragging with a rasping texture across my forehead. She caught the cold sweat pooling in my eyebrows, then moved down to my eyelids, her hot breath puffing into my nose as her tongue dragged over my lashes to collect the moisture. The sensation was so alien, so invasive, that my mind tried to retreat into static.

Then she whispered. It wasn’t a growl or a hiss—just a dry, clicking, rattling breath forced right against my ear canal.

“Everyone is made in the image of God except me.”

She said it twice, her raw gums actually scraping against my earlobe, before she rested her wet, toothless mouth directly over mine to catch the moisture of my breath. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. I just lay there, feeling the slow, shallow suction as she pulled the air from my lungs.

Eventually, the paralysis broke. My fingers twitched, adrenaline flooded my system, and I gasped and sat up in a violent lurch. The room was completely empty. Weak morning sun pushed through the blinds. My face felt dry. My collarbone was dry. The whole thing was so vivid, so physically revolting, that I immediately convinced myself it was the most disgusting nightmare my brain had ever conjured. I showered, drank coffee, and sat down to work.

But it kept happening. Every three or four nights. The exact same routine. The tacky skin sound on the floor, the heavy weight crawling up my body, the sandpaper tongue, the blind eyes, and that clicking whisper: “Everyone is made in the image of God except me.”

I started dreading sleep. I’d stay up coding until my body gave out, then jolt awake frozen with that smell in my nostrils. Within a few weeks, I was a wreck. I stopped sleeping almost entirely, surviving on micro-naps that I hoped were too short for REM paralysis to set in.

Then I started developing these horrible, weeping, honey-colored crusts all around my lips, nose, and eyes. They were painful and itchy, throbbing with a deep, hot pulse. The skin beneath was raw and fissured, leaking a clear yellowish fluid that would harden into thick, crystalline scabs overnight. I assumed it was a massive stress breakout, maybe impetigo from my exhausted immune system, or an allergic reaction to something in the house. I bought over-the-counter hydrocortisone cream, but it only made it angrier.

Yesterday, the pain and swelling got so bad I couldn’t focus on my screen. I drove to a walk-in clinic off Alton Parkway to see a dermatologist.

The doctor was a calm, middle-aged man with a practiced bedside manner. He listened to my vague explanation (“just some kind of rash, maybe stress-related”) and leaned in with a magnifying visor. The moment he got a close look, his whole demeanor shifted. He went very quiet and very still. He took a sterile swab, rubbed it carefully against the fluid seeping from the deepest fissure on my lower lip, and told me he’d send it for urgent culture. He gave me a temporary antibiotic ointment and said he’d call as soon as the results came back. I could feel him watching me differently as I left.

He called this morning. His voice was strained, the kind of careful tone medical professionals use when they’re trying not to alarm you but have something very alarming to say.

He asked me if I worked with livestock, or if I’d been volunteering at a sewage treatment facility, a homeless shelter, or a medical waste site. I said no, I’m a software engineer, I work from home, I barely even go outside. I live in a clean house in Irvine.

He cleared his throat and said the swab cultured positive for an incredibly aggressive strain of MRSA, combined with massive concentrations of Fusobacterium nucleatum and Porphyromonas gingivalis. I asked him what that meant.

He explained that those last two are anaerobic bacteria found almost exclusively in the human mouth—specifically in severe, advanced, untreated periodontal disease. Trench mouth. The kind of necrotic gum infection seen in people with zero dental care for years, often compounded by extreme malnutrition and methamphetamine use. He said the concentration on my skin was baffling, as if my face had been repeatedly and heavily coated in infected human saliva over a period of weeks. He also mentioned that the lab found microscopic trace elements of a specific soil-dwelling hookworm ovum that typically lives in the damp, unpaved drainage culverts and runoff ditches in the Southern California foothills.

My hand started shaking so badly I nearly dropped my phone.

I hung up and looked up at the ceiling. In the hallway, right outside my bedroom, is the square wooden attic access panel. I’d walked under it a thousand times without a second thought. Now I dragged a chair over and stood on it, bringing my eyes level with the trim. The clean white paint around the edges of the hatch had faint, dark, oily finger smudges. Rounded prints, too small to be mine, leading from the seam upward.

I didn’t go into the attic. I ran outside and called 911.

Because it’s Irvine, three police cruisers showed up in under five minutes. I met them on the driveway, completely frantic, showing them my face and explaining what the dermatologist found, the missing food, the thing I thought was sleep paralysis but wasn’t. They took it seriously, probably assuming it was a squatter or a stalker with severe medical issues.

I led the officers into the hallway. One of them set up a collapsible ladder under the attic hatch and drew his sidearm. A third officer came in carrying a suppressed M4 carbine, the kind with a short barrel and a matte finish that absorbs light. He positioned himself at the base of the ladder.

The first cop climbed up, pushed the wooden panel aside, and shone his tactical flashlight into the dark, narrow space.

“Irvine Police! If anyone is up here, show your hands now!” he shouted.

I stood a few feet back, looking up. The beam of his flashlight cut through a thick layer of grey blown-in insulation, illuminating a narrow, low cavity crisscrossed by wooden trusses. And right there, in the far corner, braced between two roof supports, I saw her.

She was huddled in a nest made of torn insulation, my missing laundry, crumpled plastic grocery bags, and what looked like paper towels smeared dark. When the light hit her white, cataract eyes, she didn’t cover her face. She hissed a wet, spraying sound, her raw gums flapping and snapped her jaw with a click of bone on bone.

“Step back! She’s lunging!” the cop on the ladder yelled.

She scrambled forward violently, completely unhinged, her body low and fast like an animal. But she couldn’t see where the wooden beams were. In her blind, furious panic, she stepped off a joist and planted her full weight directly onto the unprotected, thin drywall between the trusses.

A massive, violent CRACK shook the entire ceiling. Dust and debris exploded downward. The drywall collapsed in a jagged, gaping rupture, and she crashed through the ceiling face-first onto the hard laminate flooring of the hallway, right between me and the officers.

Absolute chaos erupted. Drywall dust billowed through the air like a white smoke bomb. Through the haze, she rolled over, covered in plaster dust and blood from the fall, and lunged directly at the officer at the base of the ladder. Her fingernails were black, thick, and hooked, aiming straight for his eyes.

The cops didn’t hesitate. The space was incredibly tight. The officer with the M4 fired a rapid succession of suppressed pops flat, metallic cracks that echoed deafeningly in the narrow hallway driving point-blank rounds into her upper torso and face. The other officers’ handguns barked in overlapping thunder. The noise was disorienting, concussive.

I didn’t stay to watch. I panicked, threw open my front door, and ran out onto the concrete driveway, gasping for air. I stood by my car, chest heaving, staring back at the front window of my house. The muffled gunshots subsided into tense radio chatter and shouting. A long, still silence followed.

About an hour later, the sergeant came out to speak to me on the driveway. He looked physically sick, wiping drywall dust and dark spatter from his uniform with a trembling hand. I asked him what the hell was going on and who she was.

He told me they ran her prints and got a match from an old arrest record. She was a severe, long-term methamphetamine addict who had gone missing from the Riverside area two years ago. She’d been living completely feral, migrating through the massive underground network of concrete storm drains and agricultural runoff culverts that connect the foothills directly into these Irvine neighborhoods. She slipped into my house weeks ago through an unlatched garage utility door and climbed into the attic. She survived entirely on the food she stole from my kitchen while I worked or slept, coming down only when she was certain I wouldn’t see her.

She didn’t survive the shooting. The sergeant told me, in a very blunt, clinical way, that a high-velocity 5.56 rifle round at point-blank range inside an enclosed hallway creates an immense amount of damage. Combined with the handgun rounds, the hallway and my bedroom were completely destroyed. He basically said the house was a biohazard nightmare of blood, biological tissue, and toxic dust, and that it was completely unlivable.

The property management group was absolutely terrified of a massive liability lawsuit. By this afternoon, they’d already agreed to completely void my lease, refund my entire security deposit, and they’re currently paying for my stay at this hotel. The corporate rep told me the damage to the home’s structural framing from the ceiling collapse, combined with the extreme biohazard contamination, means the entire interior has to be gutted to the studs, and the city is already talking about a partial demolition of that section of the structure because it’s cheaper than trying to clean it.

Honestly, I’m just trying to process everything right now. I’m on a heavy course of oral and topical antibiotics for the MRSA and the mouth bacteria, and the dermatologist thinks the sores should clear up in a couple of weeks. I’ve already reached out to a therapist who specializes in trauma and sleep disorders—I know I’ll need help untangling the paralysis episodes from the reality of what was actually happening to me in the dark.

I haven’t tried to sleep yet. They gave me a mild prescription sleep aid, but I keep staring at the hotel ceiling, listening to the air conditioner rattle, and I can still feel the dry drag of her tongue on my eyelids.

Once my skin heals and I get through the worst of the shock, I’m going to start looking for a new place. This time, I’m strictly looking at renting an apartment in a high-security, gated community with 24/7 guard patrols and zero access to the foothills or storm drains. No attics. No crawlspaces. Nothing above my bed but concrete and steel.

I’m not sleeping in a room with an attic hatch ever again.

Anything you can share

I’ve tested this across different machines and even unilateral exercises and I’m finding that my left side is stronger than my right side despite being right handed and my right bicep looking a little larger . It’s weird

Like at what point did you start seeing muscle growth filling your frame?

You can share

Anything that you can share

Day 1 Push
Chest Press Machine
• 3 Sets: 8–12 Reps
Shoulder Press Machine
• 3 Sets: 8–12 Reps
Lateral Raise Machine
• 3 Sets: 12–20 Reps
Tricep Press Machine
• 3 Sets: 10–15 Reps

Day 2
Lat Pulldown Machine
• 3 Sets: 8–12 Reps
Seated Row Machine
• 3 Sets: 8–12 Reps
Rear Delt Machine
• 3 Sets: 12–20 Reps
Bicep Curl / Preacher Machine
• 3 Sets: 10–15 Reps

Day 3 — Legs + Core
Inclined Leg Press
• 3 Sets: 8–12 Reps
Ab Crunch Machine
• 3 Sets: 15–20 Reps

DAY A (Shoulders + Push + Quads)

Shoulder Press Machine — 3×8–12

Machine Chest Press — 3×8–12

Leg Press — 4×8–12

Lateral Raise Machine — 3×12–20

Triceps Pushdown Machine — 3×10–15

Cable Crunch — 3×10–15

DAY B (Pull + Hamstrings)

Lat Pulldown — 4×8–12

Seated Row Machine — 3×8–12

Seated Leg Curl — 3×10–15

Rear Delt Machine — 3×12–20

Bicep Curl Machine — 3×10–12

Back Extension OR RDL — 2–3×8–12

Cable Crunch — 3×10–15

DAY C (Full Body)

Leg Press — 4×6–10

Machine Chest Press — 3×8–12

Lat Pulldown OR Row (alternate weekly) — 3×8–12

Seated Leg Curl — 3×10–15

Lateral Raise Machine — 3×12–20

Cable Crunch — 3×10–15

I’m male early 20s 5’7 119lbs and I’m new to the gym and trying to reach 130-135LBS by mid July by having a more aesthetic appealing physique like a model. I’ve hit the gym twice this week so far. And my routine is for 3x a week

🅰️** Work**out A

**1. Leg Press**

3 × 10–12

**2. Machine Chest Press**

3 × 8–12

**3. Front Lat Pulldown**

3 × 8–12

**4. Lateral Raise Machine**

3 × 15–20

**5.** **Tricep Pushdown Machine**

3 × 12–15

**6. Plank 3x until failure**

⸻

🅱️** Work**out B

**1. HS Iso-Lateral Low Row**

3 × 8–12

**2. Seated Shoulder Press Machine**

3 × 8–12

**3. Lat Pulldown**

3 × 8–12

**4. Seated Leg Curl Machine**

3 × 10–12

**5. Bicep Curl Machine**

3 × 10–12

**6. Plank**

3 × 60 sec

⸻

**🅲 Workout **C

**1. Leg Press**

3 × 10–12

**2. Chest Press machine**

3 × 8–12

**3. HS Iso-Lateral Low Row**

3 × 8–12

**4. Seated Leg Curl Machine**

3 × 10–12

**5. Machine Lateral Raise**

3 × 10–12

**Planks**

3 × failure

It’s my second time of being at the gym & I was supposed to hit leg day but I was only able to get through a warm up on a treadmill before calling it a day when I was supposed to do leg press. I did upper body on my first day last Saturday and went 100% and I’m experiencing what’s called “DOMS” and “T-Rex arms” I thought the day after the workout was peak soreness but today it’s so bad I had a hard time taking my shirt off and picking up and taking sips from my water bottle.. Do you experience this less and less the more you work out?

It’s my second day of being at the gym & I was supposed to hit leg day but I was only able to get through a warm up on a treadmill before calling it a day when I was supposed to do leg press. I did upper body on my first day and I’m experiencing what’s called “DOMS” and “T-Rex arms” I thought the day after the workout was peak soreness but today it’s so bad I had a hard time taking my shirt off and picking up and taking sips from my water bottle. Does that feeling go away?