Tuesday, August 4, 2015

5 Reasons Why I Hate Running

List articles suck. Every time I click on one like an addict who is suffering from withdrawal, I’m always let down, like I just snorted baking soda instead of the real thing.

If I clicked on an article like this one, the reasons would probably go like this:

  1. Sweating. Like, so gross. Gimme my hydration back! AmIRight?
  2. Like, Food. You can’t eat while running. Like, ugh, I’m so hungry. I need an airplane tray that straps around my neck!
  3. Just…. Everything about running. It’s the worst. Are you so broke you can’t buy a freakin’ scooter?
  4. Seriously, food. Does anyone have a bag of chips? Even a cucumber would do.
  5. Being drunk, haha. I’m always drunk. I’m drunk right now! Lulz.
Anyway, here’s my list, which is, like, way better.

Small Shitty Dogs

Every time I run past a cuddly pitbull, it’s always tied up with enough chain to haul a freighter. It gives me a happy lazy look, tosses me a thumbs up (paw up), and I go merrily on my way. Sometimes it even barks at me, as if to say, “you go bro! You rock!” Hell yeah, fellow warrior dog!

Small “cute” dogs are NEVER tied up. 100% of the time I run past one, it chases me into the freaking street like I’m a bitch in heat with a fresh steak strapped on my back. And this always happens when there’s a tractor trailer and like two Sherman tanks barreling down the road right next to me. What am I supposed to do?

I can’t punt it in its stupid furry face, because, I can’t. So I have to ruin my pace and blast off at a sprint so it can’t catch me on its useless stubby legs. I just hope that it gives up before my heart rate hits a cardiac “event”. I have to hope that it hasn’t been crossbred with an Africanized Killer Bee. I don’t want to add 5 miles to my run become Scrumples refused to surrender.

And there’s always about 15 greasy children and one fat mom yelling after the dog like it’s going to do one goddamn bit of good. Your dog isn’t your dog. It’s a wild animal that stays in your house because you jam its face with the doggy equivalent of poptarts. Don’t tell me that your adorable little pooch has NEVER ever chased anyone before. “But he loooooves people!” Right, and if he caught up with them, he’d chew off their calves.

So cute. Until it swallows you whole.



Even just thinking about this is causing me to drool with rage. I’m going to have to replace my keyboard if I mash it any harder. Every time I run, EVERY horsefly and mosquito in the county collects around my head. It’s D-Day, and my scalp is Normandy. I’m not the only living creature with flesh and blood!

Recently I’ve started carrying shirts with me when I run. I don’t wear them. I just swing them around my head like a cowboy with a lasso. I look like a maniac running down the street. By the time I finish, my shirt looks like I’ve just mopped up a crime scene. But the bugs don't seem to care how many of their brothers get creamed.

And the bugs are stupid. They just smash into me. Repeatedly. Just, pow. Even my car doesn’t hit bugs as hard as they hit my head. It’s as if I saw a grocery store and ran full force into the window. And then got up and did it again, screaming, “why can’t I get the food?!”

Why don’t the bugs go for shitty little dogs? They’re slow and don’t have shirts!

Just horrible and stupid.



This happens every time I run with a friend. And I’m not talking about them being competitive. No. They’re always super cool and talk to me about books and love and the meaning of life. I’m talking about ME. Why can’t I run with a friend without turning into an asshole?

It’s not even conscious. It’s just the douche monkey in me that says, “this is a battle and you must win!” So I imperceptibly speed up. My friend speeds up because he doesn’t want me to miss what he’s saying about the expanding cosmos. And then I think, “oooooh hell no,” and I hit red line.

What should be a fun jaunt with a friend becomes a panting angry struggle for no reason whatsoever. The conversation degrades to, “how *gasp* are *gasp* you *gasp*?” and they just croak in reply. And every step you take you just know you’re causing irreparable damage to the friendship. Enjoy your “victory”, because you’re going to be savoring it alone in the dark over a bottle of whiskey.

This asshole.


Long empty stretches.

This is just a road that goes on for all eternity. There’s not even a tree or mountain for you to shoot for. Just a ramshackle house with a mailbox that you inexplicably run into. I don’t even know why. I saw it coming from two miles away. But for some reason I find myself dodging it at the last second like it just jumped out from behind a bush.

And these roads always – ALWAYS – have no shoulder and a parade of tractor trailers. It’s as if Target just decided to ship all of its merchandise to every single store all on that afternoon. As if the infinite road isn’t bad enough, you’re on permanent Defcon 5 panic mode every time Megatron drives passed you.

Before I start my run, I always think these roads are a good idea. “Well, this road is 10 miles long. That’s like one super long block. I’ll just do it and I’ll be almost done. Won’t have to screw around weaving down a bunch of side streets.” And then I always regret it. Ten miles on one long road is like ten miles of being punched in the face.

Nowhere. Forever.



When you saw me mention being drunk in my “fake” list at the beginning of this article, I bet you didn’t think I was going to mention it for real. Too bad sucker!

I count my calories, because my default state is just to be a giant pile of shit. When I first started counting my calories, it actually helped moderate my drinking. I’d run out of my budget and say, “well, I guess I have to cut it off at 2.73 ounces of gin.” And I’d go to bed on time and wake up feeling joyful and refreshed.

Not anymore.  I run so freaking much now that half an hour before bedtime I’ll say, “oh shit, I’m still under a thousand calories.” Do you know how much alcohol it takes to fill up a 1000 calories? Almost a literal gallon of beer. Or enough liquor to drown a cat. How cruel is fate that the healthful act of running results in me binge-drinking every night. And it’s not that I don’t eat. It’s just that I physically don’t have room for any more dry cereal. Which I eat. At 11 PM. Out of a box. While drinking scotch.

All of this in one sitting. Every night.

Bonus Reason: Wearing the same disgusting running shorts 10 times in a row

Because I suck at laundry. I’m just awful at it.

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