I missed a lot of work this week due to Lianard Bones, something I got in my ankles from excessive running. I had not run for a long time because of ennui and knee pains, also people would not leave me alone all day at work, so I could get nothing done, and I was overwhelmed and paralyzed by guilt at not getting anything done. I did not deserve burritos. I did not even deserve browned iceberg lettuce and Ranch dressing. I could possibly eat Jalepeno Cheet-os, but I would hate myself afterwards.
The past couple of weeks the temperature has been down below 80 again. My horrible peeling sunburns were gone and forgotten. So I went out at lunch and ran hard. It felt good. Better than watching baseball highlights on the elliptical. Better than riding the bike downhill and keeping a car behind me for a while. It felt hard enough that I felt like I was struggling all the way, and that was great. The truly great part was when I returned and had some water and sat down. I felt fully narcoticized. I wanted to feel that way forever and never stop. So I ran too much and I fucked my bones up. Getting old really sucks.