My first run in six days was apocalyptic. By the 25-minute mark, I felt like I was going to hurl any second, and I was gasping and moaning and sweating except in a very, very bad way. I had to walk for two minutes before my heart stopped feeling like it was going to leap out of my chest and splat against the mirrors. Then I blew out my knees. Thanks, genetics!
So now is the post-vacation sag. I mean. One day off of work so that I can spend 72 hours with my in-laws in North Wales ain't exactly two weeks in the Bahamas, right, but I think the key idea is extricating yourself from the sinkhole of the every day and changing scenery. And North Wales is nothing if not a drastic change of scenery. It really took the edge off.
To capture what I fear to be a most fleeting yet exquisite case of mellow, please join me in marvelling at the hazy, drug-fuelled landscape of stoned madness that was children’s programming in the 1970s. You'll never be able to take the Oscars seriously again (in the highly unlikely event that you did in the first place.)
2 comments:
HOLY JESUS IS THAT MORGAN FREEMAN?
You just changed my perspective on shit.
Yes, as a toddler I was taught all about alliteration by Morgan Freeman dressed up as Jimi Hendrix doing The Butt with Rita Moreno. You'd think I'd have turned out way cooler.
Post a Comment