Winter in Virginia is like the annoying ex who you think finally got the picture and is leaving you alone. And for like a week or two, it’s nothing but sunshine and windows down and you feel free as a fkkng bird. Then, wham, that bastard Jack Frost comes back like Cusack under your window – boom box, luminaries, and all.
(Although the only thing they share in common is their nipple perking capacity.)
Yeah, yeah fine. We can go out if you gimme your trench coat.
I’m freezing.
While I’m totally powerless over the weather and carping’s of no use – what’s going on, Spring? It’s the ides of April, it’s snowing in New York, and I had take my leg warmers back outta wardrobe retirement.
The nice thing about warm weather is I start to feel less compelled to inundate myself with sugary coffee drinks and not burn ‘em off as I GrizzlyBear into my chick-cave of cozy isolation and rapidly manifesting adipose tissue. But today, as I reluctantly half-assed my stretching routine in name only, that old familiar feeling of caffeine cooing my name like a cinematic 50’s starlet, emerged for the third time today – and long before noon. To my shame, I acquiesced.
As is my nature, I immediately began mentally justifying my sucrose concoction as I slurped it greedily from its paper container. “It’s probably not that bad for me… I’ll use it for energy – to do some writing… I bet it’s not even that many calories… I’ll eat healthy at dinner… I’ll burn it off later… I wonder if the dog shat on the carpet again…Is that a hangnail in my shoe?”
(Inner femme monologue is so painfully cliché)
Thusly, I just wanted to come home and see what kinda cardio debt my extra Starbucks expeditions incur:
Geezus. Apparently, if I don’t want to commit to running until my shins splinter into a peeled banana bones every time I visit my caffeinated wondrous Wonka Factory, I can get one of these instead:
Right. I might as well burn my clitoris off while I’m at it. I mean, why have any fun in life ever?
Also, why are you comparing my gastro-gasms to shit like goldfish and fries? I should find whoever made this infographic and sneak “Two girls one cup” into their favey porn files for such a heinous creation.
Fcckit. I’ll just run until my toenails develop a sanguine crust.
And so long as we all have to undertake this chilly reality together, let’s unify with signs and protest the following chant until it becomes java law:
“Seasonal joe
doesn’t go!
til temps aren’t!
So goddammed low!” (repeat)