Running and Love

Running is like any other obsession, really. It takes away time you’d have to spend with sexy beautiful people.

But also it makes you super sore and tired, just... all the time.

My lovely lass – Pixie (not her real name…) -  and I were planning an epic dinner tonight. Of course, as soon as I got home, her tail wagging in anticipation of a delightful dinner, I said, “well, I mean, right after I go running.”

Running turns you into an asshole.

By the time I got home, she was sitting sullen, starving, on the couch, glaring at me. All the veggies were chopped. The tofu was marinating. But first, I had to take a shower. Oh, and I had to upload my run, because my shitty watch wouldn’t sync with my phone for some reason.

I can’t tell that I’m hungry. A mix of endorphins and…. Super endorphins? Makes me immune to common human ailments. But Pixie is a regular person with regular desires. Desires like eating more than never per day. Desires like being able to spend time with the guy she loves. Desires like not being drowned in my sweat every evening.

But I can’t not run. Because then I’d be a big fat chubster again. And who wants to be dating that guy? Of course, I blow it all out of proportion in my stupid brain. She doesn’t care if I’m extra snuggly. I’m pretty much the only person that cares that I look like a starved Ethiopian (is that racist? I may be drunk. But then I can only talk about one personal issue at a time.)

"Take all the time you want on your blog. I'm fine."

Pixie is reading to me now, excerpts from a book she's into. It’s far more fascinating than the bullshit I’m writing here. I think she’s trying to distract me. Because after I spend hours beating the shit out of myself on the pavement, I then come home and write about it.

But my character is defined by what I do. I could stop running, and just hang out on the couch all day, eating peanuts. God that would be the most wondrous thing in the world. Can you imagine? Just sitting, and eating, watching TV. Because you feel like it. No desire whatsoever to cause near-permanent injuries to yourself. But then I wouldn’t be me anymore.

Even though perhaps the running seems crazy, it’s an expression of me. I plan on never using my health insurance. I want to be the guy who, if you hit me with a car, I’ll hop to my feet and say, “haha I’m fine. By the way do you see my other shoe?” I like that all of life’s problems seem so stupid by comparison.

Pixie can have the worst day of her life, and I can still handle it with infinite patience. What can she possibly do or say that could injure me as much as the injury I cause to myself? Well, she’s hasn’t tied me up and fed me to ravenous coyotes yet, so maybe I shouldn’t speak too soon. But for the most part, I don’t sweat small dramas.

A lot of people obsess over trivialities. I suspect it’s because they don’t have anything to focus their energies on. If I had a bunch of beer-fuel with nothing to burn it on, I too would give a shit that you don’t like where I put my socks. Which is everywhere. Literally everywhere. There is not a single place in the house that is not socks.

And my socks are disgusting.

And full of holes.

Just... So much bad.

But I’m never mad. Well, not never. I get mad at myself a lot. For sucking more than I had intended to suck. If the Bluetooth on my running watch isn’t working, it’s probably because my stupid body is blocking the signal. If a bunch of bugs are eating my face, it’s probably because I sweat like a pig on the planet Mercury. If my coworker gets upset with me, it’s because I run too much and don’t know how to relate like a functional f@#king person.

Maybe running doesn’t make me as calm as I thought. Maybe I just internalize all my rage. And then blast it out via my body. But we all get angry. Super angry. Don’t lie. I saw you at the grocery store and you were ready to murder someone because your tomato was bruised.

That’s important to me: To have an outlet. And I can’t let out my aaarggghhhh once and then be OK forever. It keeps coming back. That’s the cruel humor of life. There’s always stupid shit to piss us off. Even if you lived on a beautiful island, a coconut would fall on your head and you’d scream, “f@#$ g@#d#%@ f(*&ing coconut piece of shit asshole coconut.”

But it’s not the coconut’s fault. It’s just creamy and delicious. It got tired and fell off the tree. Like a drunk falling off a bench. How cute is that? It wobbles for a bit. And then falls down. How could you get upset at that? BUT YOU DO. Because you’re a jerk.

I don’t like being a jerk. I’ve done lots of jerky things. And not in a delicious smoked meat sort of way. But in a “look at me and my swinging penis” sort of way. Because I felt like I had to prove something. Maybe when I first started running I was trying to prove something. But now it’s just a thing I do, every day (I know I’m supposed to have a rest day but shut up).

That’s the nice thing about running all the time. You give up on trying to prove anything to anyone. I don’t need to be the alpha boss man in my relationship with Pixie. I greet her every day with the biggest smile on my face. Even if she just spent the whole day cleaning my disgusting socks and just hates me right then. I still treat her like the most delightful creature in existence. Which she is.

All of life is relaxation compared to running. If Pixie wants to have a delightful adventure. Awesome! If she wants to just chill out on the couch and watch TV shows I stole off the internet, awesome! If she needs to vent all her bottommost rage and vitriol at me. Awesome! Because after I almost broke my body in half for no good damn reason at all, seeing her say and hearing her voice is happiness and music by comparison, every time.

I don’t think I’m being presumptuous in saying that not a lot of people get to enjoy that. The feeling that just everything is fine, all the time. There’s nothing that can throw me off my center. Well except for my shitty watch. WHY WON’T YOU SYNC?!

Blogging is so hard.
Photo Cr. Pixie

Blasting Through the Wall

I ran 21 miles today. It was the farthest I’d run in over 4 years. I know, that’s not very reassuring coming from someone who writes a running blog.

I never said I was a great runner.

I know some (most?) of you are thinking, “what are you talking about whacko? Even thinking about that distance would kill me.” I guess I was talking to an imagined audience of elite world-class runners who frequent my blog.

So I guess to most of you, I just sound like a douche.

Hitting the wall is like dying, but oh wait you’re not dead.

I ran with my running cohort, Geoffrey. Because running that far alone is like sitting for three hours with your legs submerged in bees. At least this way, we both had our legs in bees…. But we could talk about women and how much they hate us and stuff! “My legs feel like fire. So anyway, about last night…”

While we were running, I asked Geoffrey what it would feel like to hit the wall. He said my legs would suddenly get very very heavy. I thought he meant it would suddenly feel like someone tied two anvils to my ankles. Like in those movies when Italian mobsters drown you in a river. I guess I pictured getting drowned. In a river. With anvils on my feet.

It’s not quite how it felt.

Considering I’d run a half-marathon just three days ago, I felt surprisingly good this morning. I mean, I was mildly enraged at having to set my alarm clock for ass o’clock on a Sunday morning. But once we got going, I felt like a chickadee, happily flapping its wings in the morning breeze.

As we approached mile 15, I started to think, “geez, I could do this forever!” Maybe my body burns brain cells instead of fat. But then at about halfway through the 16^th mile, I was pulverized by about two months worth of pain all at once. My body just suddenly started saying, “ow ouch ow asshole ouch I hate you ow ouch.”

I didn’t realize this was my personal version of the wall. I’m used to pain. Running is like volunteering to be tortured every day for no reason. “I don’t have any useful information, but could you please torture me anyway? K thnx.” But today I felt like the torturer suddenly decided, “waaaait a minute, maybe he does know something. Let’s dial up the torturousness just for shits.”

These beautiful puffy clouds mock my pain.

About this time Geoffrey had to slow down a bit. I think his heart rate was so high that it required booster rockets to stay aloft. He felt bad for slowing our pace, but considering that a swarm of angry squirrels were repeatedly stabbing me in the legs, I was totally OK to slow down.

Any plans I’d had for running forever were dashed. The plan had been for exactly 20 miles, and I decided that that was a pretty ideal almost-but-not-quite-kill-me distance. But then at about 19 miles something bizarre happened.

All the pain just vanished.

Poof. It reminded me of reading about folks who freeze to death. First they hurt a LOT. But then at some point they actually feel awesome. In fact they get too hot, and start stripping off clothes. I was fairly certain that my legs had exploded, leaking gooey life out in puddles. I felt that my body had decided to let me exit the world with a modicum of happiness.

I felt so great, that when Geoffrey stopped at 20 miles, I kept going. I figured if I was going to keel over in the middle of the road, I would do so running. I even sped up, because I’m a jerkhole and really wanted to rub it in the face of whoever would take my spirit away.

I need to make an aside here. Apparently while he sat in the grass, Geoffrey put his shirt over his lap and unleashed just a massive torrent of piss. Apparently it leaked out into the street and almost caused a bicyclist to wipe out. “Holy f@#k where did that puddle come from?” I imagined it was the most orgasmic pee he’d had in his life.

Anyway, I picked up my pace and pounded out another mile. I felt like I’d only  just stepped out of the house. I was trying to decipher what cruel tricks my body was playing on me. Was my leg actually broken? Was I like one of those zombies on TV, dragging a severed ankle bone across the ground? What the hell? I didn’t question the fates.

I’ve broken my body plenty of times. It would have been nothing new.

By the time I finally decided to stop exacerbating my imagined injuries, I had run a perfect palindrome: 21.12 miles. And I felt awesome. Had I drank so much the previous day that my sweat was still alcoholic and had reabsorbed into my flesh and made me drunk again? Perhaps!

But we were done. It was our first 20 mile training run before the marathon. We have two more. Because training runs are designed to beat the shit out of you, giving you ample time to tearfully give up before you embarrass yourself at the actual race.

Geoffrey spent about 20 minutes in a blind rage. Apparently that’s normal for him and he kept reassuring me that he’d be fine soon. I encouraged him though, because that’s a thing I do when someone is grouchy. Actually, that reminds me of some of the things I had said to him during the run:

“Every massive breath you exhale kills half the butterflies in China.”

“The force of your powerful steps is sending shockwaves through the earth, creating massive earthquakes in Bangladesh that kill millions.”

“Children shit their pants in panic and terror in the wake of your ferocity.”

Yes, most of the things I tell him when we’re in the midst of conquering the wall are horrible and mostly offensive. I acknowledge this. But in those moments, the Pope himself could be in front of us and I’d say, “get out of our way old man!” I’d still have to high-five him though, because the Pope is awesome. Seriously though. Google that dude.

After we were done, we went to our favorite pub and had 2,000 calories of grease, starch, and beer. It was transcendent. I saw heaven in those moments.

Also the waitress was very sweet. We gave her like a 35% tip.

Survived to fight zombies another day.
Photo cr. Marc Ryan.

Pre-Race Mania

I’m running a half-marathon in just a couple of hours. For one thing, I’m going to blast through this post at “race pace”.

Expect lots of grammatical mistakes.

A half marathon isn’t even that long. My training runs for the marathon I’ll be doing in a couple months are far longer.

And yet on the day of the race, my stress levels are the same as if I have to deliver a baby in a car.

First I prepare like an insane person.

I normally suck at packing. I’ll go on a week-long trip in the mountains with a pair of dingy underwear and a half-charged phone. But when it comes to getting ready for a race, I cause psychiatrists to scramble to update their definition of OCD. I create a giant pile of junk, and just keep adding to it.

No performance enhancing drugs, really!

Then after that I just stare at a piece of furniture for ten minutes like a lunatic. There’s a certain amount of time that has to pass before my brain says “you need shoes, idiot.” Usually I’m just stressing out for no reason. Unfortunately, I actually DO tend to remember just one last critically vital thing. So my paranoia is here to stay. Forever.

Never mind that the one thing is something like a banana. Of course my mind says, “you will DIE if you don’t eat this banana before you run.” More likely I will lose like 12 seconds in a race that takes an hour and a half. But, but… Banana!

In the old days, people would just run free and wild, feet bare, junk swinging wildly. They would occasionally race. Perhaps to a tree. Perhaps to a bison. Which they would then kill with their hands and devour on the spot.  Check out all those partial sentences. I told you the grammatical maulings would be copious.

But today a race is a brutal trial. What will all your friends on social media think when they see that you only did OK, and that you didn’t “obliterate” the race. I mean, those friends who don’t reflexively click like, or +1, or squeeze the balls, or whatever you do these days to show fake acknowledgement of your life’s work.

Nobody cares, really. Only you. Only me. I’m the only one who will sit brooding in an empty bar contemplating all my imagined failings. “I can’t believe I didn’t double-knot my shoes. “I’m such an IDIOT.” Haha, good times.

And I drink excessive amounts of coffee.

Coffee is going to get its own section. Actually, it’s one of  my many addictions I don’t feel all that bad about. I mean, not emotionally anyway. Sure my heart is racing 100% of the day. But other than that, wooooo, here comes my delicious heart attack!

But come race day, I slam coffee like it’s the cure for cancer. There’s a bunch of reasons, I pretend. It hydrates me, sort of. My mouth feels like a desert and my stomach feels like it’s holding a fish tank, but that evens out, right? And there’s something to do with synapses and reflexes and stuff. I may have to dodge a turtle in the road you know!

But the most important reason I drink coffee before a race is something that’s going to make you rapid-fire click the X in your browser like a bunch of nude midgets just popped up on your screen. It’s a great diuretic. That’s right. Are you still here? It makes me poop. A lot. How about now, still there?

Just a steaming pile of...... coffee

I want to be as light as possible at a race. That means I just want to shotgun everything in my body OUT of my body. And coffee, in addition to being God’s nectar, accomplishes this without fail. I blow up that port-o-potty, making sure the next person in line doesn’t make it out alive.

I was told I should make my posts at least a thousand words long, because it makes search engines blow their wads. But I seriously have to leave in like two minutes. I see a word count of 687, 688, 689….. Uuuhhhh, maybe I CAN get this up to 1000….

Race time! F&*# where’s my banana!

Post-race update! 

Spoiler alert: We're all still alive.

Let's bloat up this post a bit! The race was amazing. I ran it with my brother Alex and my epic running pal Geoffrey (who will be starting his own blog soon! Or he'd better....). But let's start from the beginning.

I was feeling tired and sore all day. I was sure I was going to gas after 50 feet and walk/crawl the whole race. Thankfully, with the aide of a giant banana, that didn't happen. But my mild challenge was nothing compared to Geoffrey's!

You see, one of his kids takes Adderall. And not because most Americans are drug addicts. No, his son came to him and said, "dad, I have trouble focusing in school." And Geoffrey replied something like, "well, you know, just focus more." (I'm paraphrasing) Then later his kid came and said, "dad, I saw a butterfly and failed my test!" (Again I'm paraphrasing) So Geoffrey got him a prescription, and wouldn't you know it, his son had like a 200 average the next semester.

Geoffrey gives his son one pill every morning. He keeps it on his bed stand with his pain reliever and other stuff. You know where this is going. Well the morning of the race, Geoffrey went to grab the Adderall for his son and purely by reflex popped it in his mouth and swallowed it. This was immediately followed by full panic mode.

Two facts about Geoffrey:

1. He's highly sensitive to mood altering drugs.
2. It's literally impossible for him to make himself throw up.

So after several valiant efforts to stick his entire arm down his throat, he gave up and Googled online, "I'm going to die! What do I do?!" Google said (in a voice that sounded a lot like Morgan Freeman), "Drink, like, a SHIT ton of salt water. 100% guaranteed vomit fountain." Geoffrey did that. Guess what DIDN'T happen? Right, he didn't throw up. So not only did he have Adderall in his gut, he also had half of the Pacific Ocean in there with it.

Did I say panic mode before? This was "the zombie apocalypse is upon us!" mode. And he had to race that evening. Being used to life kicking him in the balls repeatedly, he went to work. He started to feel prodigiously awful. He went to the Urgent Care Center across the street from him. Once again using my power of paraphrasing, the conversation went like this:

"I'm going to die! Like super die! A lot!" Wailed Geoffrey.

"I'm pretty sure you'll be fine," the doctor said, while gazing amorously at the nurse.

"My stomach feels like Mount Doom! There's lava leaking out my nostrils! Help!" Geoffrey spewed.

"Just.... Drink a bunch of water. Like, all of the water. By the time you're done, California shouldn't be the only state with a water shortage." And then the doctor and the nurse went into a closet for a private consultation.

I'm sure the doctor was actually very nice and understanding. In any case, Geoffrey drank a swimming pool of water. Two things happened:

1. He felt much better.
2. He had the most amazing high of his life.

He told me all this in the car off-handedly, like he suffers near fatal crises every day. We got to the race. Remember my brother Alex? Well he had only signed up for the 5K.

Why? Because his "training" for the past month had been bathing in a river of beer. He chased a squirrel for a few feet once, I think. But for the most part he had taken a break from running to rekindle his relationship with hangovers. So we show up in the registration area and this happens.

"We're here for the half-marathon, because we're awesome rockstars," said me and Geoffrey.

"OK," said the guy.

"I'm here for a 5K, because I've run less this year than an obese paraplegic," sobbed Alex.

"OK," said the guy. Judgmentally. Then Alex gazed after me and Geoffrey longingly, as we pinned on our half-marathon bibs, which were exactly the same as his 5K racing bib.

"Actually, can I upgrade to the half-marathon?" Alex said, because he too wanted to be a rockstar and had nary a care for life and limb.

"You'd better, you bloated pansy," the guy possibly replied.

So entirely on the spur of the moment, nursing a hangover, with almost no training under his belt, Alex upgrade to the half-marathon. Woohoo! I loved him again.

Alex only needs this to run.

I cruised the entire race at a heart rate of 170. You know how old geezers jokingly say that in their day, they had to walk to school uphill both ways? Yeah, I always thought that was physically impossible. Until the race. It defied the laws of physics. It started and ended in the same spot. And it was uphill 100% of the way. I'm not exaggerating. Every single person there said exactly the same thing. At some point along the way, we hit a vortex that devoured all the down hills.

Nearing mile 9, I realized that someone was trailing me, step for step. I tried to keep ahead, but he soon overtook me. He said something very friendly with a big smile, but I still felt like he was Ivan Drogo, and I was Rocky, the plucky underdog. I stayed close to him, but the distance between us slowly grew.

Then, right at mile 11, we hit the one and only down hill of the entire race. Ignoring the very likely scenario that I would break my whole body, I literally fell down the hill. And zooooomed past the guy at warp speed. He again said something friendly with a smile, and I felt like Rocky, delivering a powerful uppercut. But Drogo was still in the fight!

Two seconds after the one glorious down hill, we hit by the far the biggest up hill of the entire race. There was no way I wouldn't end up on the moon after climbing it. My pace went from a 4 minute mile to a 20 minute mile in the space of 30 seconds. My ass muscles screamed at me. Shortly after the hill, friendly smiling Drogo jogged past me like he ate hills for breakfast.

And I chased him for the last two miles. My heart rate danced around between 172 and 177. I wasn't sure which would happen first: My heart would explode, my legs would explode, or I would throw up all over myself. Somehow I survived. Mile 12. Then the last few blocks. I was hot on his trail.

I had asked him at one point if he was in the same age group as me. He wasn't. So it didn't really matter if he finished ahead of me. But oh it so mattered. We hit the last stretch. I was still trailing at least 50 feet behind him. I couldn't possibly go any faster. And then I whispered my goodbyes to the world and my loved ones, and hit whatever line is three lines past redline.

My heart rate hit 187. I felt like a cartoon dog who just saw a sexy cartoon lady dog. Every beat my heart stuck a foot in front of my chest. I tore past Drogo. For a split second he looked like he would try to race me. But that final blow did it. I finished the race 3 seconds ahead of him. We finished, high fived, and he said a bunch of friendly things with a smile. Our fight to the death was a long forgotten memory.

I finished in 1:35:29, 13th overall and 1st in my age group. Geoffrey finished in 1:43:11, 28th overall and a PR for him. He could have gone faster, but he deliberately ran at marathon race pace to help his marathon training (which matters more to him than blasting a half like stupid me).

Remember Alex? I was pretty sure I would have to go home and return the following morning, right around the time he would finally finish. But by the time I changed clothes, kibitzed with Geoffrey, and bullshitted around, he was already waiting for me in the beer tent! Asshole who had run maybe once in the past month finished in about 2:05! He beat his previous half (whenever the hell that was) by over half an hour. After that I vowed to quit running and just stick to drinking beer, because apparently it worked amazingly well for him.

Speaking of beer, we drank about half of the beer that was at the Fireman's Fair (which the race coincided with). We hung around to get our medals. Then we drove back home, stopped at a pub, had two heaping pizzas, a vat of french fries, and several pitchers of hoppy ale. I likely put 10 pounds back on.

I came home, fell down on my face, and fell comatose. My cat then sat on me, enjoying the lingering body heat from my carcass.

Then, I made pancakes this morning.

The end.

5 Reasons Why I Hate Running

List articles suck. Every time I click on one like an addict who is suffering from withdrawal, I’m always let down, like I just snorted baking soda instead of the real thing.
 
If I clicked on an article like this one, the reasons would probably go like this:
 

1. Sweating. Like, so gross. Gimme my hydration back! AmIRight?
2. Like, Food. You can’t eat while running. Like, ugh, I’m so hungry. I need an airplane tray that straps around my neck!
3. Just…. Everything about running. It’s the worst. Are you so broke you can’t buy a freakin’ scooter?
4. Seriously, food. Does anyone have a bag of chips? Even a cucumber would do.
5. Being drunk, haha. I’m always drunk. I’m drunk right now! Lulz.

Anyway, here’s my list, which is, like, way better.
 
Small Shitty Dogs

Every time I run past a cuddly pitbull, it’s always tied up with enough chain to haul a freighter. It gives me a happy lazy look, tosses me a thumbs up (paw up), and I go merrily on my way. Sometimes it even barks at me, as if to say, “you go bro! You rock!” Hell yeah, fellow warrior dog!

Small “cute” dogs are NEVER tied up. 100% of the time I run past one, it chases me into the freaking street like I’m a bitch in heat with a fresh steak strapped on my back. And this always happens when there’s a tractor trailer and like two Sherman tanks barreling down the road right next to me. What am I supposed to do?

I can’t punt it in its stupid furry face, because, I can’t. So I have to ruin my pace and blast off at a sprint so it can’t catch me on its useless stubby legs. I just hope that it gives up before my heart rate hits a cardiac “event”. I have to hope that it hasn’t been crossbred with an Africanized Killer Bee. I don’t want to add 5 miles to my run become Scrumples refused to surrender.

And there’s always about 15 greasy children and one fat mom yelling after the dog like it’s going to do one goddamn bit of good. Your dog isn’t your dog. It’s a wild animal that stays in your house because you jam its face with the doggy equivalent of poptarts. Don’t tell me that your adorable little pooch has NEVER ever chased anyone before. “But he loooooves people!” Right, and if he caught up with them, he’d chew off their calves.

So cute. Until it swallows you whole.

 
Bugs

Even just thinking about this is causing me to drool with rage. I’m going to have to replace my keyboard if I mash it any harder. Every time I run, EVERY horsefly and mosquito in the county collects around my head. It’s D-Day, and my scalp is Normandy. I’m not the only living creature with flesh and blood!

Recently I’ve started carrying shirts with me when I run. I don’t wear them. I just swing them around my head like a cowboy with a lasso. I look like a maniac running down the street. By the time I finish, my shirt looks like I’ve just mopped up a crime scene. But the bugs don't seem to care how many of their brothers get creamed.

And the bugs are stupid. They just smash into me. Repeatedly. Just, pow. Even my car doesn’t hit bugs as hard as they hit my head. It’s as if I saw a grocery store and ran full force into the window. And then got up and did it again, screaming, “why can’t I get the food?!”

Why don’t the bugs go for shitty little dogs? They’re slow and don’t have shirts!

Just horrible and stupid.

 
Competitiveness

This happens every time I run with a friend. And I’m not talking about them being competitive. No. They’re always super cool and talk to me about books and love and the meaning of life. I’m talking about ME. Why can’t I run with a friend without turning into an asshole?

It’s not even conscious. It’s just the douche monkey in me that says, “this is a battle and you must win!” So I imperceptibly speed up. My friend speeds up because he doesn’t want me to miss what he’s saying about the expanding cosmos. And then I think, “oooooh hell no,” and I hit red line.

What should be a fun jaunt with a friend becomes a panting angry struggle for no reason whatsoever. The conversation degrades to, “how *gasp* are *gasp* you *gasp*?” and they just croak in reply. And every step you take you just know you’re causing irreparable damage to the friendship. Enjoy your “victory”, because you’re going to be savoring it alone in the dark over a bottle of whiskey.

This asshole.

 
Long empty stretches.

This is just a road that goes on for all eternity. There’s not even a tree or mountain for you to shoot for. Just a ramshackle house with a mailbox that you inexplicably run into. I don’t even know why. I saw it coming from two miles away. But for some reason I find myself dodging it at the last second like it just jumped out from behind a bush.

And these roads always – ALWAYS – have no shoulder and a parade of tractor trailers. It’s as if Target just decided to ship all of its merchandise to every single store all on that afternoon. As if the infinite road isn’t bad enough, you’re on permanent Defcon 5 panic mode every time Megatron drives passed you.

Before I start my run, I always think these roads are a good idea. “Well, this road is 10 miles long. That’s like one super long block. I’ll just do it and I’ll be almost done. Won’t have to screw around weaving down a bunch of side streets.” And then I always regret it. Ten miles on one long road is like ten miles of being punched in the face.

Nowhere. Forever.

 
Alcoholism

When you saw me mention being drunk in my “fake” list at the beginning of this article, I bet you didn’t think I was going to mention it for real. Too bad sucker!

I count my calories, because my default state is just to be a giant pile of shit. When I first started counting my calories, it actually helped moderate my drinking. I’d run out of my budget and say, “well, I guess I have to cut it off at 2.73 ounces of gin.” And I’d go to bed on time and wake up feeling joyful and refreshed.

Not anymore.  I run so freaking much now that half an hour before bedtime I’ll say, “oh shit, I’m still under a thousand calories.” Do you know how much alcohol it takes to fill up a 1000 calories? Almost a literal gallon of beer. Or enough liquor to drown a cat. How cruel is fate that the healthful act of running results in me binge-drinking every night. And it’s not that I don’t eat. It’s just that I physically don’t have room for any more dry cereal. Which I eat. At 11 PM. Out of a box. While drinking scotch.

All of this in one sitting. Every night.

Bonus Reason: Wearing the same disgusting running shorts 10 times in a row

Because I suck at laundry. I’m just awful at it.