Jogging is supposed to be a calming event. A chance to get out of your head for a moment, to just let the adrenaline coursing through your body and the emersion in the beauty of nature to wipe your worries away. This is how it is with normal people. The following, on the other hand, is how it is with me. “I’m running slow because I’m on my sixth mile right now, pal.” This comes whenever a guy passes me on the path. I’m responding to his probable mental taunts with a reasonable excuse as to why he’s passing me: his legs are fresher than mine. The problem with this, however, is that I’m not on my sixth mile. I don’t run six miles. At most, I run about two. Which means that I’ve just responded to an accusation that only exists in my head with a lie. That’s right. I’m lying to a fictional entity I created in my own mind without saying a single word. This is basically the ending of Fight Club. “I will run past this hot girl as fast as I can.” The logic is flawless, actually: I will show off my physical prowess by speeding past this attractive female jogger in front of me, therefore subconsciously alerting her to the fact that I’d make a good mate, kick-starting in her loins the desire to have sexual intercourse with me,
which is, when you break it down, really the only point of all this jogging nonsense in the first place, am I right? Like I said, flawless logic. The problem with this is two-fold: (1) I run way too quickly past her, almost like I’m scared of her, which isn’t a quality most girls find attractive in men; (2) I immediately tire and end up a half-mile down the road, hands on my knees as I gasp for air, watching her jog past me – no doubt, judging me while she does – and putting an end to any kick-starting of her loins. “Are they judging my penis size?” I guess it doesn’t really matter where I’m at for this thought to pop in my head. “I will bite your fucking head off, dog.” I love dogs. Really. I was brought up in a household of dogs. Friends ask me to dog sit their beloved canines. They trust me with their dogs’ lives, people! But whenever I encounter a dog in my jogging path, I see red. They are a hindrance, no doubt just waiting for me to run past so they can dart in front and trip me with their leash. And then, to make matters worse, while I’m bleeding the annoying, overprotective owner who is substituting this animal for actual real children will probably blame me for not watching where I was going.
So, you better get out of the fucking way, beast. Dog meat is a delicacy in some cultures. I’ve always wanted to give it a try. “Jogging is fucking stupid and you’re fucking stupid for jogging.” This is how I end every workout. When I’m too tired or out of breath to go on and just decide to walk the rest of the way home, I just have a good old fashioned bout of mental judgments, looking at everyone else jogging as the suckers that they truly are. Unlike myself, of course, who’s reached a place of complete transcendent clarity (just moments ago) when I realized the futility of just running for fun. Fuck you, jogging!
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