Posts Tagged ‘Mall’

ROMANCE! (Part 1 of 7)


.......what the WHAT?

WEATHER: Take a guess.

MILES: 10.

MILES THIS WEEK: 24.

WHERE TO: Lincoln Park, Mall, Lincoln Memorial, home

MOOD: Sensual.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

I’ve realized that I’ve been an absolute hellbitch lately, mostly due to just about the worst week at work ever last week (“Who taught me how to write?  Drunk baboons?”), combined with a tiring running weekend (“I will PEE ON EVERY NON-WORKING WATER FOUNTAIN I FIND, I SWEAR TO GOD, WASHINGTON, DC!”), which has made me less than pleasant to live with (“Bring me the head of whatever ass-hat loaded this dishwasher!”).

Life is taxing sometimes, dear readers.  Sometimes it’s all too much.  Sometimes life voms on your shoes and steals your lollipop.  Sometimes you need an escape.  Sometimes you want to light some candles and get down with your bad self in a bubble bath with a box of Godiva and a glass of Cabernet and an Enya CD while breathing winsomely, “Calgon, take me AWAY!”

Sometimes, girlfriend, you need romance.

And so I am here to deliver you from your hellish daily life with a romantic story, delivered to you in serial format…partially in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for more running-log goodness, and partially…no, actually, mostly in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for the goods.

Tonight, I bring you part 1 of 7.  Why seven?  Well, I’ve always found seven to be the most sensual of the single-digit integers.

So, without further ado, I bring you:

QUADRICEPS AFLAME

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Dirty Little Secrets


WEATHER: 35?

MILES: Yeah…about that…

MILES THIS WEEK: 47.5

MILES THIS MONTH: 105

WHERE TO: Down N. Capitol St., around the Capitol Building, down the Mall, back home.

MOOD: Grumpy — cold coming on, knee injury coming back.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Dirty Dancing

Come 'ere, lover. We gotta talk.

Alright, readers.  We’ve known each other a while — you know a bit about me, I’ve shared my life and dreams with you, you’ve let me feel you up a few times.  Things are good.

But, baby, sit down.  It’s time we talked.  See, I haven’t been entirely…honest about a few things.  I know every day I give you my mile count, show you my dedication, tell you how my day went…

…but OK.  I’m just gonna say it: I don’t actually know the distance I’ve run on any given day.  To be honest, I just sort of guess. <knits fingers together, twists them nervously>  Now, now, don’t look at me that way.  I think I’ve been overestimating!  Like, I run for 45 minutes and I write it down as 5 miles, but you and I both know it’s more than that.  Because, <heh>, when was the last time I needed 45 minutes to-

Aw, hey.  Don’t do that.  Take your pants back off.  Come on.  I can ‘splain.  Oh, for the love of God.  Get back here.  How am I supposed to know distances in DC? I never told you I WAS measuring, anyhow.  I didn’t lie!  I mean, yeah, I could go to some sort of distance-plotting site, but it takes so long and ruins the mood, and it just FEELS better this way, you know?

Oh, hey.  Hey.  It’s gonna be OK.  We’re still gonna do this marathon together, you and me, and it’s gonna be great.  Now you know.  And aren’t you glad I was honest?

Do you still respect me?

<reaches out, touches your face tenderly>

C’mon.  C’mere.  Yeah.  That’s it.

<wraps arms around you, buries face in your neck, comforted>

Good.  OK.  Because I have a few other things to add.  Really minor.  Just general confessions.  Like I have several times relieved myself in non-port-a-potty places in DC.  And I did it all the time in Minneapolis, too.

There.  That feels better.  Oh and also while I’m confessing I stole a few energy gels from your sock drawer when you weren’t looking but they were the gross orange kind you like the least anyway and I pee in the shower sometimes but it goes all to the same place anyway and I spat in your leftover chili that one time when I was mad at you for leaving your goddamn hairs all over the bathroom sink again and I drew some really filthy pictures in the margins of your Bible and oh once or OK a few times I ateyourReddiWhipfromThanksgivingstraightfromthecanintomymouth andthecanhasbeeninthefridgeeversincebutyoudon’tseemtonotice.

I feel better.  Now.  Show me your hoo-hah.

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