I’ve always been a Raymond runner, where what I’m really saying is that I’m not exactly a frequent flyer, if you know what I mean. In fact, I go yogging an average of twice per year. Each time I run, it’s a complex and celebrated affair baptized with champagne and culminating in a ten-hour movie marathon (theme: veggin’ out). The very mention of jogging has been known to make me collapse in a faint.
Well, all that historical debris? To be promptly shoved to one side! Today I ran a WHOLE! THREE! MILES!! Nonstop! There was much traveling down long, arduous mountain roads (fine, mildly sloped paths) and calling to cows and complaints about ankle splints and sprained duodenums. A lot of complaining, actually. It wouldn’t be me without some good ol’ mountains outta molehills, after all. But the important thing is that I DID IT! I really ran those three miles! It was all me!
Nobody was excited as I was that I just RAN! THREE! MILES!, so I had to resort to taking illustrative and triumphant pictures of myself in order to express my bliss.
I’m Now Experiencing Bliss At Having Run A Full Three Miles (In Pearls)
Let’s Dance To Celebrate The Fact That I Have Just Run Three Miles
I Don’t Know WHAT That Is But I Just Ran A Whole Three Miles Y’all
(Informative post on dipshits throwing up irrelevant gang signs to follow.)
Now I Am Exhausted But Happy At Having Run A Whole Three Miles
- Which reminds me, I think I’m going to go take a shower now. After all, I am rather sweaty and gross… THANKS TO HAVING RUN A WHOLE THREE MILES. It just comes with the territory, you know.
