I Didn’t Want To Run At All Today.

I didn’t want to fucking run at all today.

I spent most of the morning and afternoon snacking on chocolate and generally hating myself and the world.

To make matters worse, the train back from Liverpool Street to Bruce Grove was diseased and stopped at Seven Sisters which meant I had to walk up to the house and past Dixy Chicken which is always a hazard for me. I ordered 6 Chicken Wings and the nice man behind the counter gave me 6 FUCKING HUGE ONES.

They were fucking delicious but they made me hate myself all the more.

I can’t be one of those people who hates their reflection and hates themselves. I want to be a happy member of society i.e. someone who loves their reflection and hates themselves.

I got home and lay in my bed for an hour feeling like a fat fuck. Even running 5k seemed 5k too far. I just rolled over and tried to forget about the December challenge as I let out fried chicken burps and could feel me sweat grease into my mattress.

Fucking sexy.

I don’t know why but I got up and forced myself out the door and started off on a slow jog down Tottenham High Road. The first mile was absolutely fucking miserable. A long trial of self hatred and chicken farts. A death march of awkwardness and futility. I crossed over to the other side of the pavement when I spotted someone in the distance just to avoid any encounters.

As the run went on it got easier. The previous 13 days of running have served me well and I began to drift into autopilot. Towards the end it even became fun. I ran 7 miles in total when at the start of the run even 3.1 miles seemed out of the question.

That’s my 18th run in 14 days. 130 miles in a fortnight. Not bad going. I just wish I could stop eating fried chicken. And donuts. Fucking hell. Please ban all that shit now.