WEATHER: Take a guess.
MILES THIS WEEK: 24.
WHERE TO: Lincoln Park, Mall, Lincoln Memorial, home
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: