So Find A Way To Brace Yourself

Today was my second day of hardcore twenty-minute exercising. I don't like exercise (and since I shy away from sportly activities I don't think I ever will) but knowing that I ran two miles earlier in the day is certainly a great feeling. Don't do the math here, though.

Rock Show Girl (likewise unwilling to join the U-Frisbee team with all the cool kids) is working out with me. Also, there's usually some random person who shows up halfway through and works out right next to us. That's weird. But it is nice to have someone to keep my guilt and shame at a constant level, should I try to flake out and do fifteen minutes or something.

My other pseudo-athletic activity didn't go so well. The Politician, Jonas and I played some Frolf at a woody course, and I didn't do nearly as well as I did on Saturday.

I don't even remember which hand I throw with. (I'm trying to figure out the difference between ambidextrious and not caring). I just did every throw backhand, with whatever hand made the backhand easier. And I hit trees. I hit lots of trees.

I remember in grade school, when I caught and threw with my left hand. I remember the mockery, especially from Graham. O yes, I remember.

I was really tired today, after my heroic morning run and some and that made me both groggy and irritable in Shakespeare. I tried to lash out against The Sentimentalist, who was overanalyzing a metaphor again, but no one understood what I was talking about.

Also, despite what some in class might say, Britain and England are not the same place. Britain includes Wales and Scotland.

Which reminds me: Happy Birthday, Larson. This is a poor means to deliver that kind of message (and it's presumptious to just assume that Larson reads this webpage religiously) but I just want it on the record in case I forget to try other means.

Yeah, I've got a lot to do tomorrow.

Later.