“OK, I’m 3.8 pounds under Normal BMI. I was 11.2 pounds under a few months ago. They say to have max longevity, you need to be about mid-normal. For me, that’s 175 pounds. If I weighed 175, I could do a reverse 360 David Thompson Memorial Somersault slam dunk. I once benched 300 and dunked a basketball in the same year.”
I soliloquatified as we warmed up for a run. It was cool to warm but clammy. We were going to run hills.
“You’re a moron.” Said the Boten-Daughter. “Who can listen to this?”
“I’ve never run with the Boten-Daughter before.” Quoth the Librarian.
We started slow. I wasn’t feeling well, maybe the beginnings of a cold.
Our first mile was about 10:30. I felt like I was running hard. We ran along the ‘Frogger’ Highway.
We had to climb over the guardrail and run on the thin strip of earth above the ditches and culverts. Then we turned up a very steep sub-rural hill past McMansions and by an endless series of ‘No Outlet’ streets. Our two mile time was horrid. I was getting sicker.
“You don’t look well.” Said the Boten-Daughter.
“He looks bad.” Said the Librarian.
We ran on the scary country lane, the ‘Death Race 2000’ road.
The three mile time was also bad. We were on track for about 4.12 miles again. “I keep hitting a wall at 4 miles. Something is wrong with me.”
“Well that goes without saying. Go see a doctor.” Offered the Librarian.
“He cannot be cured. It is melancholy with a touch of the rheum. He yearns tragically for my dear mother, the late, haunting Annabel Lee. She was beautiful, you know. I walk the halls of Utonic Mansion at night and sometimes I imagine I hear her voice in the wind. But alas, I will soon be alone in the world, like Chingachgook. It is I, the Boten-Daughter, the last… of the Utonics.”
“I feel like she was a great woman. Which is inexplicable how she ended up with a shit-covered, retardate ape like the Botendaddy.” Added the Librarian.
“He is an imbecile.” Nodded the Boten-Daughter.
Peace be the Botendaddy