But every so often I'm struck with the urge to work, like really work, like work so hard that I can eat as many cookies as I want when I'm done because DANG I just worked so hard.
So yesterday I went to the track to do some sprints and no,
And at first last night I was all YEAH YEAH YEAH WATCH ME FLY, BETCHES. And then I finished my first sprint of 21 and thought I was going to blow some serious chunks. And by the end of my first lap I was feeling a bit like this:
Especially when I flashed that old man with the white hair who kept passing me because how is it physically possible that the old man with the white hair and tube socks is that fast, huh? And every time he whizzed past, he whispered get off the track, pussy in my ear. Just kidding, he didn't actually say that but it would have been pretty awesome if he did. He did, however, tell me I had nice legs, which was equally as awesome because nothing makes you feel fitter than a white-haired old man in tube socks who likes your legs but let me tell you, my legs aren't nearly as nice as his lean, hairless limbs.
Anyway, if my 16-year-old track team self had seem my current 23-year-old self making my way around that track, my 16-year-old self would have been all what is wrong with you? Stop flailing your arms. Are you farting? As she effortlessly passed me with the smooth ease of a gazelle. Then as she was lapping me, she would have been all by the way, can you buy me beer?
After my workout, dazed and with a weird ringing in my ears, I came home and took a hot shower to