One for the challenges of being a nonfiction writer is that you can’t tell half of your friends when you’ve finally gotten published. Chances are they did something stupid you spent several weeks of your time and talent judging them for it.
How many of these cardio classes do I have to endure before my depression is cured?
“Oh, did you have a cheat meal?”
Nope, I was eating my feelings. Loyalty had nothing to do with it.
In my recurring nightmare, I am actually moving. I am running as fast as I can. But, despite my best efforts, everyone is passing me.
Good God, signing up for a 5k might have been a huge mistake. It feels like the equivalent of purposely going onstage and attempting to perform a piece that quit rehearsing weeks ago or jumping out a window because I once had a dream that I could fall far better than I could fly.
I once asked my dad why he backed into parking spots when we went to church. He kept his eyes forward as we walked from the back of the parking lot to the church’s front door. “Quicker exit,” he said, and I think about this as I pull into the parking lot at work and watch the side mirrors as I back myself into a corner spot.
“Jesus did not, in fact, travel all the way to earth, uphill and in the sand, to give you the freedom to act like a child of Satan.”
I think I’m happy.
We made it to 100. Thanks for hanging out.
If I take a few wrong turns, I could end up in Canada instead of at work.
Getting through the morning took a full day’s worth of effort.