Dear Teenage Me,
I will start this letter off in the same manner that you would have started off letters in high school: ”Wazzup?” Now with the formalities out of the way, let me begin by saying, Jesus Christ you are a fuck-up. You are the worst. I am embarrassed to have to account for all our blunders. Depending on when you’re reading this, the worst is possibly yet to come. You have already/are going to make so many terrible decisions that negatively impact your future and could possibly alter time and space forever. Yeah, why would you do that? Some of those things we can’t chalk up to teenage angst or run-of-the-mill acting out. Some of those things are just you being a terrible person. Here’s a glimpse into some of the stupid things that you do:
I’m putting pen to paper, hoping that 2014 is the Year of the Time Machine and I’m able to book some time in a Circle K telephone booth, so I can hand deliver this to you to warn you about, not any of the above mentioned shit, but something else. Something that is really going to impact your adult life.
I’m posting to document that I have voluntarily decided to stop drinking for a month to prepare for my first full marathon. A friend came down to Richmond to run the Anthem Marathon back in November; I was signed up for the half. After the race, we went out for drinks to celebrate. I’m pretty highly skilled at Peer Pressure, so I demanded that she keep up with my frenzied pace or be subjected to some (very mild) name-calling. “I should take it easy,” she told me. “I haven’t drank for the past month to prepare for the race.” ”A-what?” (that’s what it sounds like when I gaffaw.) Was she serious? Was she was even speaking English? I couldn’t believe that those words had just come out of her mouth. Right there in the bar, in front of God and everyone! After I looked around to make sure no one had heard her, I pulled her aside, asked her to lower her voice, and tell me exactly what she meant by that. She explained that her training schedule was too crazy to allow for libation-consumption and to please let go of her arm I was hurting her. Grip-loosened, I began to understand. The time commitment to training, the health benefits, the not feeling hungover, the being hydrated part….It made sense, I guess. Her self-control was inspiring and I was impressed. And then I got drunk and everything was inspiring and impressive.
Over the next week, I began to process everything from the race. I had run a 1:41 half-marathon. When I crossed the finish line, even I was stunned. When people found out about my time, they told me, “You’d probably qualify for Boston.” I emitted more gaffaw sounds. The Boston Marathon? Get real, dummies. 20 mile runs, pshnothankyou. But, my interest was piqued. Sure enough, when I looked up the qualifying times on the BAA website, it appeared as if I might have a chance, 3:35 is the qualifying time. So, I made up my mind and signed up for my first marathon in New Jersey on April 27th.
And so, taking a page from my friend’s book, I too have vowed not to drink for the month prior. Two days into this endeavor, I found myself getting into my car and before I knew it I was pulling into the SPCA parking lot. ”What’s going on?” I asked myself. And then I realized I…I was contemplating on adopting a cat? Which is weird because I hate cats. Nevertheless, there I was. Sober Brain had gotten the idea that maybe a cat would be good for Terry. We’d be a happy family! And then I was staring at this furry mammal who was obviously so brain-damaged from in-breeding that he decided lounging in his litter-box was a great way to spend his Saturday afternoon.
Hand sanitizer abounds in the SPCA and as I doused myself in it after ginergerly touching two cats, I caught a whiff of that alcohol smell and I was able to get ahold of myself. It was clear, I needed alcohol to fog my judgment and save me from myself. I was able to walk away sans-cat.
So, here we are, 5 days in. Training takes up a lot of my time, but not drinking does leave a void in my daily routine. There’s a social aspect of drinking that I’m missing more than anything. What’s sadder than not drinking and spending evenings alone watching Bravo On Demand? Tending to this blog that no one reads.
I think I’m the only one reading this blog, but you know, I love Me so much that I’m just going to keep on listening to myself type and continue on with this series of Reasons to Hate Runners. Here we go, Me, you beautiful specimen, you!
The third reason that runners are worse than those people that actually like Duck Dynasty is that we are the 1%. We’ve got racks, son. Now, not racks on racks on racks, but we’re doing ok. I say this because running is an expensive hobby and you’ve got to pay to play, my friend.
We walk into our local Dick’s Sporting Goods and we are making it rain because running gear can be pretty pricey. Good running shoes, on the low end, can cost $80-$150. And then depending on how much mileage you’re putting on them, you should really buy new ones every couple months or so. Even those stupid "barefoot runners" are begging for an excuse to spend money. You’re either barefoot or you’re not, Bilbo, you can’t have it both ways!
Entry fees are a motherfucker. For the Anthem Richmond Half Marathon, the entry fee runs $70-$110 depending on when you register. We’re talking about dropping a Benjamin to run for 2 hours, get an ugly shirt (stay tuned for more on this), and post-race snack. Oh yeah, and a bib. A thing normally reserved for babies and the sacrificing of lobsters. Kind of ridic, right? I’m seriously contemplating just taking up a drug habit, because it’s cheaper and I would get the same perks of entering a rate. I could start my own race, The Bubbles Baltimore 10K: $15 for a hit, run around for 2 hours stealing copper from construction sites (probably burns more calories too), the local church presents participants with a donated “Avoid the Noid” Dominos T-Shirt at the finish line, and then meet up at the Sev for a celebratory Big Bite, washed down with 40 ounces of the blue bull. This past spring I probably spent $250 in entry fees. Next spring I’m just going to buy $250 worth of Molly. New PR, here I come!
Finally, some runners need a second job just to pay for “runner’s fuel”. I’m talking about all those stupid protein bars, the sports drinks, the gel, the human growth hormone…Krogers doesn’t have an off-brand/generic substitute for Gu called Dr. Slimy. Eating a healthy diet of protein, vegetables, and fruit is not cheap. There’s a reason that runners can’t eat off the Dollar Menu: McDiarrhea.
So, there it is. You hate us because we spend good money to wreck havoc on our bodies, risk serious injury, and then complain about it. Which I think is the definition of “Mo’ money, mo’ problems.” Now if you’ll excuse me, my peacock needs feeding and my housekeeper needs verbal abusing.
I got these Free People overalls in the mail the other day. I am now ready to punch that clock and start my shift building those railroads for The Oriental Trading Company. I’m also ready to be the butt of all the jokes. You know you’ve got some.
I’ve been vegetarian for over a year and am always on the look out for new, scrumptious recipes to try. I wanted to share this meat-less treat because it’s fairly inexpensive, is delicious all year round, and is a real crowd-pleaser with guests. Bon appetit!
Measure out 8 oz. of water.
Pour all 8 oz. of water into the filtering pitcher of your choice.
Refrigerate at 35 degrees for approximately 2-3 hours, or until your preferred coolness.
Pour the now cooled mixture into a serving glass of your choice and enjoy!
<3 <3 <3 Mmmmmmmmmmmm. I promise, you won’t even notice the meat is missing! :)))))))))))
Did that last post elevate your blood pressure slightly? No? Well, let’s just keeping chugging along then and maybe this insult will add to the injury and continue to explore another Reason to Hate Runners.
Reason 2: We make really shitty playlists.
Seriously. You would be shocked and awed at some of the playlists people make that are only intended to be heard on runs. Some of the music that runners suspend in the iCloud, well, it’s inexcuseable. But, it’s all for sake of motivation, man. You know Gary, your 44 year old neighbor with the 2 kids and the corgi? That dude listens to Skrillex on his 5am runs before picking up Winnie the corgi’s shit off the lawn. Surprised? Well, Colleen from Accounts Payable in your office, the one who drives the Prius and only makes green tea in the breakroom’s Kuerig…Girlfriend has a playlist that has 2 Chainz sandwiched between Linkin Park and Katy Perry. Weird, right? I’m not exaggerating, this is a real thing that runners do and are known for. And here’s what’s going to send you over the edge:
I read an article in Runner’s World where this woman admitted that she ran the MOTHER-FRACKING BOSTON MARATHON with Carly Rae Jepsen’s, Call Me Maybe on repeat*. That’s some seriously effed up ess. Let’s assume for posterity’s sake that this woman was fast, that’s still 3 and a half hours of “throwing a wish in a well.” If I did the math correctly, that’s more than 840 “maybes”. I mean, what else does this woman do to maintain motivation THAT SHE ISN’T WILLING TO ADMIT TO A NATIONALLY CIRCULATED PUBLICATION? Did she train for the marathon by leaving her husband and the 16 year old babysitter with the huge knockers alone at home and hoping her endurance will get her back before they “work out alternative methods of payment”? Or does she hire Duke lacrosse players to chase her with their dicks out so she can achieve that 7:45 split time? I don’t get it and I don’t trust her. The best part of the article was that the writer totally glossed over her admission. Which further illustrates that poor-playlist-creation is totally acceptable in the running community. So, I hope that this post further documents runner’s stupidity and lack of taste to motivate you to hate us more. And if it doesn’t, well fuck me and call me crazy. Maybe.
*I tried to find the link to the article, but Runner’s World only had the abbreviated article on-line. And yes, I’m making fun of the quote, but it was from a sad article about the Boston Marathon.
I’m an avid runner. It’s, like, one of the only things in my life I take seriously. That, and my commitment to eating pizza once a week. For those of you who don’t run regularly (not a judgment, merely a reminder that you’re overweight and lazy and worthless), there are some things you might not necessarily know about runners. Please allow me to tumble some wisdom your way and give you the first, in a series of Reasons To Hate Runners.
Reason 1: We are entitled dickheads.
I run on the road and refuse to place limits on myself in terms of what kind of “traffic” I am. We all know there are only 3 kinds of “traffic”: Bikes, Pedestrians, and Cars, right? Wrong, dumb-dumb! There is a fourth and that is the Runner.
Never knew we existed or seen us in the wild? Let me drop some knowledge on you, mic check.
Scenario A: When I encounter you in your Nissan Cube at an intersection, I fully expect, no-I demand!, that you give me the right of way. Because, at that moment, I’m on foot and you wouldn’t hit a helpless pedestrian, would you? Maybe you would because you’re pissed that I just saw you driving your stupid fucking Cube, but Flo or the Gecko might frown on that, so just cool it!
Scenario II: You’re on your bicycle and on my daily run, we cross paths. Now what? You’ve just entered the goddamned Thunderdome, that’s what and only one of us is walking away from that intersection alive!
I try to gouge your eyes out, but you have on those ridiculous sunglasses. You grab my super-cool water bottle belt and begin riding circles around me, playing keep away. You make a lame attempt to run me over, but I step out of harm’s way and give you the ol’ Cow Tip. You crash to the asphalt and struggle to get up but, oh no!, your foot is caught in the stupid pedal strap thing and then I remember I’m packing and I shoot you dead. Helmet, shmelmet.
Third Scenario: I approach an intersection where you’re now in your Fiat, stopped already at a stop sign. You motion for me to run across, attempting to do the “nice thing” to overcompensate for being a douchebag who drives a car (if we can call it that) that’s endorsed by Jenny From the Block. My reaction? I flip you the bird and tell you to get bent in front of the all the kids in the neighborhood because I don’t trust you. Despite being laughably compact, you could still easily kill me when you run me over, so I’m not going to risk playing Chicken Marsala (aka Chicken with an Italian car). This confuses and displeases you and as you yell at me as you drive past, you vow to never be nice to runners again.
Last Scenario: A runner and a pedestrian are traveling from opposite directions, heading on a collision course on a city sidewalk. Who yields to who? Or is it who yields to whom? Whatever, one of us done have to yield to the other. Anyway, the answer is that the runner yields to the pedestrian, obvi. Because everyone knows that runners have a reputation for being caring and selfless. We are all exactly like Forrest Gump.
Asked by tumblrbot
My dog, Terry.
Similar to the groundbreaking, gender bending band of the 80’s, Culture Club, I have decided to make a tumblr and take it to the masses.
Here are some NAQs (Never Asked Questions) about my tumblr:
Q: What do you plan to post? Is there going to be a theme?
A: You idiot. This is a tumblr. It’s meaningless and nonsensical. If you want meaningful content, you have stumblr-ed upon the wrong page. OK, gun held to my head, the theme is Hope Solo.
Q: You know you’re, like, 20 years late to tumblr. Why start now?
A: I’ve slowly been banned from all other social media sites and this is my last resort. I was pretty upset about being “asked” to leave the Pinterest community. My Pinterests just so happen to be more along the S&M lines. Making homemade latex wasn’t a crime the last time I checked. I think Taylor Swift said it best when she said, “There’s a special place in hell for cry-baby cunts who flag other women’s Pinterest accounts.”
Q: How often are you going to make new posts?
A: Honestly, it’s hard to say so I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep. It might take me days, possibly weeks to scour the internet for content to plagiarize to pass off as my own. Your patience is appreciated.
Q: Why don’t you love dem hoes?
A: I’ve been hurt too many times in the past and it’s just easier for me to put up an emotional wall. And they stank.
Q: Tell me a little about yourself, who are you?
A: I’m a single female, living in Richmond, VA. I run these streets. At any given time, I’m about a 6-pack of light-beers away from downing a bottle of ibuprofen. Not because I want to die, but because I want to inflict damage on my liver. I own an English bulldog named Terry. (I wanted to keep him out of the spotlight and not expose him to this crazy bloggin’ lifestyle, but he might make some appearances.) I think I maybe should have used a semicolon in the above question, but oh well.
Q: Will I like your tumblr?
A: Probably not. You probably didn’t even make it this far. You’re probably looking at some post on Buzzfeed about Miley Cyrus right now. Actually, I need to go read that…