“It’s getting worse, you know. Your running is atrocious. You’re just a shitty runner.”
The librarian paced effortlessly beside me in her black spandex.
“Don’t you have to be in Washington tomorrow for the Trump inuauguration?”
I felt like I was running very fast, but my time was horrible.
“I’ll be there on time. Worry about your own business.” She snapped at me.
“I think I just don’t care anymore about running. It’s boring, unpleasant, I can’t breathe, my knees hurt. It sucks. It always sucked.”
“That massive, enormous, putrid, yeasty, del.ic.io.us diaper doesn’t help either. I mean what if you are running and you make a massive, brownuous, muscular foul-smelling gargantuan bowel movement? Where do you stop and change the hideous, filth? Or do you wait until you get back? Wow, what if it’s a half-marathon? Ah the smell of it!”
The librarian had to be distracted from her freakish and unhealthy obsession.
“Look, I’ve started writing and critiquing again. Running just doesn’t seem fun. I did buy fractional Olympic plates for my gym. They are colorful and they will alleviate the boredom of working out.”
“Don’t quit running yet. It will be warm soon. It’s just the weather. It’s this weird 42 degree rain that’s so depressing. Make love to me right now, here in the woods aged Botendaddy. I deserve love too, don’t I?”
Peace be the Botendaddy