In the mood to, for no reason at all, hit someone in the face.

Right now I am completely resistent to everything. Offense, defense, tragedy, your deep idea. Take it elsewhere. I don't care. I don't care!

And I am really tired of talking about writing. Unless you're my teacher, go away. I mean it. The next time someone comes rambling at me about their "epiphany" or yammers at me about their novel-in-progress and then talks over me when I attempt to respond, I will count to three.

One.

(Unless you're Dom/Flo.)

Two.

(Or Cormac McCarthy. He gets me going these days.)

All others better start running.

--

Well, if I'm destined to tread these same circles, I'll at least try to make it interesting for myself. Three-sports-connected interesting. Running up the hill that climbs steeper the faster you drive your knees up and down, catching the sun dripping over the sound as you reach summit, legs wobbling as the road flattens, headphones singing the only thing I still believe in is you, pumping your fist in triumph as a truck passes-hell, yeah. I am the fucking champion.