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.

In case you hadn’t noticed this is the second installment of my *Behind Closed Doors*. This is supposed to be my version of that thing that real bloggers do when they do their weekly wrap up but on some weeks this maybe all I am doing so on the following week my weekly wrap up would include only last weeks wrap up and it would get really boring really fast.

So this is my ‘when ever I get to it’ wrap up.

1.

So last week I talked about my hair, and then I talked about my hair and then The Bitch Blog featured a post of mine about my hair.
I’m thinking I need to come up with a new trick for this pony.

2.

Last week I was the victim of Moooooog35′s probing questions at Studio 30+ Questions For A Blogger and as tradition dictates I then proceeded to harass Elly at BugginWord with a few somewhat less probing questions for this weeks Questions For A Blogger. By the way any one who can say Happy Mother Fucking Birthday in a birthday post to their mother is my hero.

3.

I ran my second *official* 5K this past weekend. And I use the word official very loosely. There were no bibs, not chips to calculate your time and at the finish line you got an index card with a number. Mine was 45. And then I tore it in half and handed in the four, ate the five and then I won!

4.

I continued with my weekly Blow By Blow recap of Hellcats over at Culture Brats although this week judging from the oodles of comments I may have crossed a line when I called them all sluts… the Hellcats that is.

5.

And to make my day I decided to try and find more people on twitter like me…because I am that awesome. I clicked on the’ more like me’ link and it came up with one person.
ONE.
But holy hell the one they came up with. I am flattered, and honored and *snort* I hope she doesn’t get a restraining order on me as I try to smell her hair.

 6.

I never knew that there were Stick Pe0ple Fucking fetishists out there but they keep searching for information on it and landing here. Unless they really mean to search for fucking people with a stick which sounds awfully painful and rude. Of course I had to google it and I don’t even know what to say about this.

 7.

(click to see it in all its glory or horror) 

Another small donkey ass biting spam screen shot. That makes me want to VOMIT. Seriously this is not okay, this is not okay, this is NOT OKAY!
From Worm Farm Guru: i harvest worms through my worm farm, and then i drink their piss.
*blink*
*blink*
*blink*

WHY?

 I didn’t say anything about drinking anyone’s piss here. At all!

And this is why it would be wise of you all to lock your doors and turn out the lights and pretend your not home when I come by.