Demasiado frio para correr

I always get the strangest urges to go running around eleven o’clock at night. At which point I get dressed, grab the iPod, take one step outside into the blustering cold and realize what an absolutely, fucking insane idea that is. So I get up at five instead. Which is also, an absolutely ridiculous scheme, no matter the amount of techno music blaring. Clearly my days of track and field stardom have been replaced by apathy and lethargy. Although, I do believe my days numbered only twenty-one, if I remember correctly. Yeah, long track career in my history…that is, if three weeks can be deemed a career…which, no, no they can’t. Revision: no track career in my history. So much for committment. I was never any good anyway. Two miles is just about my limit. I remember when I was living with my uncle a few years ago and he used to bribe me to go running with him. He was training for some ungodly base marathon, but he could never find the motivation to outrun his record of fifteen miles, to which I say, GOOD GOD MAN! The marathon was something absurd, some distance I can’t even count on my hands, though I don’t remember exactly a) because I have an insanely short term memory and b) because I still can’t convert, to which I should add it was in Kaiserslautern. Never heard of it?…no surprise! Tiny. Fucking. Town. Nothing to do but listen to a barrage of German oma and opas ramble on in a practically indecipherable language (are we delineating a pattern yet?) and run...apparently. I always turned my uncle down. Opted to watch Blues Clues for the four millionth and second time with my two year old cousin. Speaking of Blues Clues, I heard some rumor that the host overdosed. Not too farfetched if you’ve seen the show. If I had to host, or even watch, Blues Clues repeatedly, again at least, I’d be prone to OD as well. I still have this tacky little watch my cousin gave me as a going away present. Hideous for anyone over the age of five, and that’s pushing it, but I still wear it on occasion. Especially if that occasion requires me to wear a business suit and watch hours of the Senate floor channel, all while responding to constituent letters informing little Suzie how to properly wear a backpack so as to ensure for minimal damage to her posture, or concurring with California Jim Splicea that, indeed, prairie dogs do rule, though they are not my life, as they are, pathetically enough, his. Clearly, I was never cut out to work for conservatives. I stuck out like a sore thumb…a super king kong mega mega sweet thumb, but a sore one.