WEATHER: Sticky to the point of slippery. Sit-still-and-sweat weather.
MILES THIS WEEK: 15.5
WHERE TO: All over.
Bless me, O Running God/Gods, for I have sinned.
It has been four days since my last post; six since my last REAL post, and the wrath of the net is upon me. Yea, it is like chaff upon the ground after harvest; it is like salt upon my face after a shitty, 90-degree race; indeed, yea, it is like those stupid water belts upon novice runners.
And so today I confess my running-related transgressions unto you.
I have been neglecting my physical therapy exercises. May God have mercy upon my soul.
I have neglected to wear sunscreen during my runs for a period of a duration of several weeks now. May God have mercy on my soul.
Whilst running in the land of Minnesota last weekend, I saweth women with abdominal muscles which, unlike mine own, did not look like pasty haggis, and lo, I was filled with several of the deadly sins — envy, greed, rage, and indeed lust…but yeah, mostly envy. May God have mercy on my soul.
In high school track, when I was given even a hair’s breadth of room on the left side of a runner, I passed on the inside. May God have mercy upon my soul.
In high school track, I also spat to excess as I ran. I knoweth not why; perhaps a nervous tick, perhaps to get rid of the cotton-mouthy-feeling-of-dread that was given unto me when the announcer shouteth, “FIRST, LAST, and ONLY CALL for the GIRLS’ THREE-THOUSAND-METER RUN!” But for this reason (and this reason ALONE), I acquired the nickname “Spitter.” And yea, though I kneweth that “Spitter” had carnal connotations, I did not exactly knoweth the nature of such connotations, and yet I acteth as though I did, and lo, did I use the name “Spitter” to comedic effect. May God have mercy upon my pathetic soul.
Just before it came to pass that I broke up with my last boyfriend, a boy who indeed did skip my races, during a time when I still hath the privileges of the keys to the door of his dwelling, I did enter said studio apartment in the dead of night, whilst he was out, I knew not where, presumably with a woman of a hipster nature who, yes, perhaps did not have abdominals like a compressed, pasty haggis, and who perhaps looketh friggin’ fabulous in painted-on jeans of two-percent spandex, and who hath also, perhaps, a greater familiarity with the works of Thomas Pynchon and also The Who than I, but who also presumably hath never sweat one drop in her existence and really when you think about it probably had a name like “Caitlin” or “Ashley” or some damn shit, well let me tell you I drank all the alcohol in his home (i.e., about a half cup of Listerine), coated my body in BodyGlide Anti-Chafing formula and slid around on the floor of his goddamn studio apartment humming the Indiana Jones theme song and periodically interjecting in a snide fashion, “Watch THIS race, ass-hat!” and “I’LL show you a FEAR OF COMMITMENT WHEEEEEE” and various other things that didn’t really make sense, in retrospect, and furthermore in retrospect this wasn’t so much punishment for him as a good time for me, and though he did mop the floor really vigorously for like a week, he did also fall during his next uberdramatic “I feel TRAPPED” tirade and bonk his head on his guitar amp, which did, OK, sort of make me giggle, and May God have mercy on my soul, I guess.
I may or may not have forever ruined running gels for a dear fellow runner of mine by comparing the substance inside to a fluid that cannot really be described except by the word “splooge.” I would ask for mercy, but let’s face it: it wouldn’t really be sincere, now would it.
I wrote this entire rather subpar post without any real idea of where I was going or what to write about at all, and I’m still not sure, to be honest. But now that I’ve said “splooge,” I’m pretty sure I can’t go anywhere but down. Because “splooge” always comes at the climax. Ahahahahahahahaha.
<sniff, awkward shuffling of feet>
I’m going to hell.