Tuesday, June 26, 2012

At this very moment, two forces are locked in a dead heat: a growing need for sleep, coupled with the stupefying effects of Red Bull. Vodka is also at play here, so I’ll be completely honest with you: it sure ain’t WordPress powering this post. Instead, this is a chemically induced web journal entry–a departure from our usual harvest of hand-picked, shade-grown adverbs–and by God, if I can make it to the third paragraph tonight, I will consider it a success.

I’ve been giving this 5K some serious consideration in the past few days. Now, just to give you some additional context, the very notion of paying money to run is offensive to me. Why divest capital to suffer, after all? Indeed, why not cut out the middle man and just write a check to the charity in question?

For one thing, the idea of training is appealing. I average 0 miles per year currently, which would make this an infinity-percent improvement. This would be my first 5K ever, too, and there’s this desire to avoid half measures. Why not fuck up my clothes in the process, in other words? Why not respond favorably to a saccharine-sweet promo video that made me throw up in my mouth a lot? It’s akin to stepping through the threshold at Taco Bell. You don’t walk onto the premises to procure, like, a small bean burrito with three packets of mild. No! You maximize your tonnage of meat “product” and discolored vegetable matter. You go the whole cow–figuratively speaking, in this extended metaphor.