I hate running.  If you’ve been here for a while then you already know this based on this post…or this post. Running for me is like being a cat and having someone draw me a bubble bath. At first, I thought it was because I can taste blood when ever I run. It’s like I’m bleeding from my lungs. Then I considered the fact that I used to smoke as the reason why running for me is like the plague.  However, as we all know most things that shape our adult life can be traced back to early child hood trauma or as I call it Seventh Grade. 

Seventh Grade and my middle bully.

J. Quacking Bush the First.

As if this time in life isn’t rife with so many tortuous obstacles but the world has to give you a   J. Quacking Bush the First of your very own for all of seventh grade.

You try so hard to fit in at this time of life and every time you make a step forward into the “inner circle of cool” something makes you take about five giant steps backwards. It could be something as simple as what you bring for lunch. Or what you bring your lunch in. Why on earth would the kind of lunch bag matter for a child trying to fit in at lunch time?

Again, I ask why on earth would it matter? A brown bag is a brown bag right?
Of course a GIANT brown lunch bag would be better than the cute tiny lunch sized bags that all the other kids parents bought specifically for their cool kids to bring lunch to school in.  A GIANT brown lunch bag couldn’t cause any added anxiety to trying to blend into the cafeteria at lunch time unnoticed, could it?
It certainly wouldn’t cause a life long aversion to paper grocery sized bags that lingers on well into adult hood.
Why would it?
It’s just a GIANT. BROWN. BAG.
WE WERE ALREADY RECYCLING… IN THE EARLY EIGHTIES.
For crying out loud, my parents were just really progressive.

Lunch itself would be enough to send me spiraling off to the nurse where I would feverishly suck on the thermometer and then rub it in my hands to get the mercury to rise because trying to find a nice empty table to eat my lunch out of my GIANT paper bag was not the worst of the situation. Every lunch was accompanied by J. Quacking Bush the First staring me down and taking her wing and making a slicing motion just under her waddle. A gesture meant to get my adrenaline going, I am sure for recess, directly after lunch.

If I managed to eat my lunch I would scarf it down as quickly as possible then dispose of the evidence, evidence being the brown bag that was large enough to fit  J. Quacking Bush the First in, a thought that I wish had occurred to me back in the Seventh Grade.

*sigh* Hind sight is 20/20.

Invariably I would end up finding my way out side to the playground hearing what I thought was my heart pounding inside my head in preparation for play time. Much to my dismay it was the slow pounding of the gigantic flippers of  J. Quacking Bush the First bearing down on me. And with a quick look behind me, I was off for the better part of an hour running my fucking ass off until the bell rang.

Down hills.

Up hills.

By teachers.

Through dodge ball games.

I probably could have set myself on fire and no one would have noticed the game I was playing with  J. Quacking Bush the First. The game I like to call “Run, Run For Your Little Life Because When  J. Quacking Bush the First Catches You It’s All OVER”.

It all makes perfect sense to me now.

 Running feels like dying a slow fiery death by bully.

So earlier today as I was in the middle of eating a hard boiled egg I was told that my presence was requested by a real human being of which I had no idea who they were so this immediately sent me into a chewing frenzy of mastication, salivation and hyperventilation resulting in a portion of the hard boiled yolk being sucked up through my nasal passage into what would be my brain hole if I actually had one. So there I sat for the next 10 minutes trying to snort that thing back down in to my belly where it belongs, or out through my mouth from which it came , only to have it shoot out through my left nostril onto my dress which I then picked up with my own hands and ate it.

Again.

I know.

IRRESISTBLE.

You see even though I haven’t written here in like a month or so, if you want to call that last piece of shit that actually took me longer than four hours to compose, writing? Not much has changed.

I am still a drooly, spittly mess of a non-social creature. Yet I constantly put my self into situations that require me to be (big fucking finger quotes here)

“SOCIAL”

Who could really blame me any way for being so socially shy when one of the two things I can remember from this past summer was hearing about a woman who lost her esophagus and needed part of her tummy turned into her BRAND NEW ESOPHAGUS…albeit swollen esophagus that was now in desperate need of an extra large jacket to  fit over her enlarged esophagus. 

 Holy hell…how do you lose your esophagus you  filthy slut…?

Just kidding.

Seriously though all I could think was ” Were you in Deep Throat? Because you don’t look anything like that nice lady from that movie!“ but it was like 800 years ago so if it was you and what with all that hard work you put in…you deserve a new throat! Or at least a really fucking rad coat for that shiny new esophagus…which is exactly why I am so good at what I do.

I make swollen whore throats all the rage.