.
Walking.
Walking has become a monu- mental endeavor. I am so out of shape that the simple act of walking from point A to point B is like marathon exercise. I did my walk this afternoon, heading down to 91st street and back, and as usual I picked up a stray. A homeless man that at first was just walking at the same pace beside me down the sidewalk. But once these mental defectives notice this, they begin talking to themselves, or in other words, YOU.
I hate people so much when I'm walking that I hate when the homeless, who are not even not talking to you even more. I gritted my teeth and was about to stop short and let him walk on. I got to the end of the block, and as he stopped to wait for the light to change to cross the fucking street, I gleefully turned around and headed back in the complete opposite direction. There is something wonderful about times like that, when you can show complete disregard for idiots and just walk off. It's magical, do you hear me? Magical!
Okay, my right knee and left calf begin to protest the walk, but what the fuck? I'll get home and sit down and it'll all be over. I did, relaxing, but not sleeping, merely writing on my laptop until it was time for me to get ready to go and meet DJ down in the Village. I got dressed, killed a little time, because I tend to get down to the Astor Place Starbucks so fucking early that I have to find something to do for forty five minutes. So this time I killed a little time, prepping a short story for mailing to a publisher. Printing it out, shoving it into an envelope with a self addressed stamped envelope and addresses. Before long, it was ready to be mailed.
I slipped out into the night and dealt with the walk, the stairs, the steep inclines of the subway stations and other whatnot to ride the trains down to Astor Place, and got to the Starbucks ten minutes early instead of forty five. I stood outside, panting, out of breath from walking up simple flights of stairs. Oh mi gawd! What the fuck did I do to myself? Allow my muscles to atrophy?
DJ showed up and asked if I wanted to go play pool as my birthday present. Hell's yeah. I haven't played pool in so long that I would love to do a game or two. He stopped off for a pizza first to eat, and then we went to Amsterdam Billiards. We played several games for the rest of the night until we grew exhausted, no longer able to even play the game. I have to admit, I was more sore than tired. The soreness was making me tired. The simple act of bending, twisting, stretching and so forth to make a shot was like yoga exercise to me. After awhile that shit began hurting my tender atrophying muscles.
When I left the pool hall I was sore from head to motherfucking toe. I wished DJ goodnight, thanked him for the wonderful birthday present and headed home, nearly limping, my knees aching, muscles throbbing and weak, bones brittle with pain. I was hurting like a man rolled over with a steamroller driven by an insane nun. On top of all this pain I had to WALK to the nearest subway station, which was on 14th street, many blocks away, CLIMB up and down stairs, MARCH up and down inclines in the subway, STAND up in train cars, and deal with MOVING about to avoid other straphangers. Fuck this shit. But it had to be done to get home.
Walking into my room, my entire body was on fire. I stumbled in more than walked, and undressed painfully. I did some light typing but could take the pain and exhaustion no more. I crawled into bed and got an hour's sleep. This was the only solace from the suffering. That was until I awoke and it pounced on me once again. I went to my medicine shelf and found the bottle of hydrocodone and popped two, hoping that it would deal primarily with the terrific pain in my back. By some miracle it dealt with all the pain in my body, washing the entire framework of agony away.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I honestly have to do this shit more often or I'm going to doom myself. I can no longer just stay in the room, stretched across the bed. I have to exercise, go places, do things.
Or die.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2011/02/eating-bowlful-of-sharp-glass.html
Visit i dont want tobe anything other than me for Daily Updated Hairstyles Collection
Walking has become a monu- mental endeavor. I am so out of shape that the simple act of walking from point A to point B is like marathon exercise. I did my walk this afternoon, heading down to 91st street and back, and as usual I picked up a stray. A homeless man that at first was just walking at the same pace beside me down the sidewalk. But once these mental defectives notice this, they begin talking to themselves, or in other words, YOU.
Or die.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2011/02/eating-bowlful-of-sharp-glass.html
Visit i dont want tobe anything other than me for Daily Updated Hairstyles Collection
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