Our office carpet is being replaced, and the adhesive which was under it ground away with some industrial... thing. Like sandpaper, only it spins, and is attached to a three foot tall engine. The refuse is yellow and fine. It smells noxious and as if it could, if ingested in sufficient quantities, fuck you up good, and then very bad.
I mentioned this to coworkers and the discussion of course diverted to drug use. 26 now, haven't touched alcohol in... probably about three years? Never tried anything else.
As ever when this comes up (I tend to prefer it not to), questions arise. So, you don't drink at all? Seriously never smoked once?
Never thought of it like that. Never said never. But never said yes either, and at this point, it seems very unlikely that I will.
I don't consider this a good thing, bad thing, or anything at all beyond the sum of my decisions to this point.
I ran a mile on Monday, and while the result wasn't profound pain, it was enough soreness to know that I'm not "back". It's odd, this. I always imagined I'd push myself far beyond my doctor's wishes, and yet here I am, granted permission to run, and not running.
Because it hurts? Because it hurts. Simple enough. Listen to your body, says everyone in the fitness world. What that means, of course, is not just that we hear it, but that we listen. So I'm listening.
But still, fuck you, fibula. I'm not running. I like running. I skipped a metal show I'd been looking forward to for months because I simply can't afford to get stomped in the leg, and I likewise cannot abide standing in the back. Half the fun of such events is the suffocating violence.