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So yesterday I started my daily runs for over the summer. Yesterday's was rough on me, I couldn't even jog the 2 miles without taking a bit of a walk. I suppose this is all right, considering how many cigarettes i've smoked in the past 9 months, and in how it gave me a very low starting bar to jump for the next day. Today I jumped the bar. Whoo. Ran the full two. Once I get home after a run, and i can feel my sweat glands squeezing beads of sweat out of my forehead, my vision woozy with the happiness of a drunken graduate, accurately being able to distinguish the scent of cow shit from the house down the road, God; I feel alive. When I feel alive I'm clear enough to critique myself on things like my social anxiety and why it's an intangeble fear, and why I even smoke in the first place. The social anxiety I can trace back easily, seeing as how I've literally been born in a barn. Might as well been a foreign exchange student from Mahaj or some ancient civilization. But the smoking thing, I can't. I just can't remember why I started. In thinking so negatively about my habits origins, I decided to ask myself a simple question, "Zac, sir of sirs, can you smoke?"
My answer was, of course, yes. Obviously the "what do you do at a green light?" trick doesn't work on me, so pat yourself on the back, Zac, you're just too afraid to commit to a desicion that can make you feel like a drunken visionary for the rest of your life. The satisfaction of such a wonderful run, the deep, healthy breaths, no. It's not quite enough for you. You pig, you, you've got all the excuses in the world, haven't you? And just at the point where I thought there was absolutely no reason I myself could come up with to quit, I was right. I do have all the excuses I am, of course, always right. About myself, at least. The mail arrives everyday conviently between the point when my run starts and my run's end. I'm glad the mail person knows what time I start my run everyday, because her kind gesture of delivering in the middle makes it very easy for me to check it on my way back into the house. Today, there were nothing but mailers. Mailers and adverts. Winded, thinking about my ego-insubordination, I thumb through them all only to have a bold voice jump out at me, screaming fidelity.


No excuses, son. Join a gym, there's a rebate. No excuses. Quit smoking, you cock. No excuses. Well all right.
This seems to happen to me a lot, a loss of faith creeps into my thoughts, I'm at the end of my own hopeless rope, completely unwilling of helping myself or anyone else, and a clever mail lady gives me a wink while making her final stop to drop my mail in the middle of my afternoon run.



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