Marchmellow

March has maybe been a little less than mellow, but at the risk of telling actual details of my real life, let's just say that I haven't been overly diligent about finding time to blog. Very few people's loss. I have heard it said that it is better to have blogged and blogged shittily than never to have blogged at all but clearly that is a made up statement and it isn't true because I don't want to read shit and I certainly don't want to write shit, despite what may develop at times.

That's when you order coffee at 9pm and listen to The Immigrant Song on repeat. Why are there even dislikes on that video? I don't understand my fellow Americans sometimes. It's also intriguing due to the very anonymous and simple clicking of a button, defining oneself while really not and doing so easily. Not that defining oneself should be such a conscious effort. It'd be great to just be. Like I wasn't just trying to be anything other than a guy who runs a lot and gets sweaty. Warm enough weather has hit the city of Chicago and I found myself on a jaunt in shorts sans shirt. I thought about it, thought maybe I should wear a shirt. But the usual came to my head: 1) I sweat a lot; 2) I hate doing laundry; 3) who gives an eff-bomb (I try not to be too profane on the old blog here)? I wonder how many dislikes I would have received if people could click as I ran by. The future!


As usual I'm getting really bad at recognizing people, by which I mean that I recognize people I don't even know, but simply have seen a lot. No sense enumerating because I don't want to add another layer to the weirdness pointing out who they are and it somehow coming back to blog me in the ass...paranoia much?

Well, here's hoping we're done being the land of the ice and the snow, even (especially?) when those refer to meth and coke respectively. Running is my drug. And caffeine. And sugar. And booze. There are more things on this list. My body is a temple, and I worship a little differently than some might. That's enough out of me.