1.  HOLY CRAP I DIDN’T DIE

2.  There is now a whole chapter in Emily Post’s etiquette book called “Only The Vulgarist of Whore-Ladies Would Ever Dream of Hocking a Loogey” and the first page has a giant blown up portrait of me on it. To which I say: IT IS GROSS TO SWALLOW YOUR SLIMY RUNNER MOUTH GOOP, EMILY.

3.  If you passed me in the first five minutes of my run, I’d probably wave and maybe even say hey.  After that, any attempt to engage me in a friendly exchange will only result in my giving you the finger.

4.   My head contains an image of my running self that is slightly akin to an Olympic marathoner, muscles taut, body relaxed into an easy stride.  My shadow tells me that my head is full of utter and complete shit.

5.  The tunes on my iPod are the only thing keeping me from flinging myself onto the windshield of every approaching car and weeping for the driver to transport my sweaty heaving carcass back home to where the couches live.

6.  I had no idea I could sweat there.  Or there.

7.  After I’ve cooled down post-run, I feel kind of giddy from all the cardiotasticness of it all, and I think “Hey!  I kind of like this running thing!” But the next day when I start out again, back at regular endorphin levels, I think “I hate running. Running is stupid.  This is stupid. Life is stupid.  I AM GOING TO DIE.”

And then when I’m done with my route, I’m back to #1 and life goes on.