Random Acts of Magic

This not exactly fiction, and not exactly true. It is not me speaking, but it is echoing my sentiments. I wrote this a few months ago and decided that posting it would be easier than posting some new material. Enjoy.

I find myself frequently an observer of random acts of magic. For example, sometimes events happen so as to make me believe that my dad is a sorcerer. He makes things appear that are not and should not be, but not for the fact that they are something that only he would imagine. He once summoned a delivery van for a completely fictional company, which sold a completely fictional product. He even went so far as to manifest an entry in the encyclopedia for that product, so as to convince me that the product, and then by association the company, was real. He likes to be right.

I once found a staff that a careless wizard had left in the back seat of a taxi. I tried to summon familiars and cast enchantments that would make trees dance around, but all I could really do was make a very sickly looking bat appear and caused a sunflower to become belligerent for about an hour. I still actually have the scar from that one. I probably need some instruction on how to use it. I would like to ask my dad, but the last thing he taught me to do was how to ride a bike, and that ended a bit disastrously. I still haven’t tracked down the owner of that staff. It sits in my closet and occasionally emits a few sparks. One of them hit a polo shirt and made it sentient for a few hours, but then it went back to normal.

There is a genie that rides with me on the bus sometimes. Once when he had forgotten his bus pass, I paid for him. In return, he gave me a stone that lets me hear peoples’ thoughts. But there is a catch. I can only read the thoughts of people who are currently or have recently been under the influence of cocaine or methamphetamine. This means that I usually can only read the thoughts of homeless men, and there are some crazy things that go through those minds. The stone he gave me is both small and unremarkable, and a little ugly in fact. I imagine that the stone would have been more powerful if I had done him a greater favor. Perhaps if instead of paying for his bus fare I had pulled him out of the way of said bus as it was traveling 60 miles an hour, he would give me a stone that could not only let me read peoples’ thoughts, but also control them. And these wouldn’t just be coked-out hobos I would be able to control. These would be your doctors and lawyers and corporate CEO’s. And let me tell you another thing about this stone: I can’t control when I hear the thoughts. When it is in my pocket and I walk by a homeless man, sometimes I will hear ramblings about the government’s program for using robots to take over local small businesses.

Sometimes, on foggy mornings, ghosts come riding out of the fog. They ride fog horses. I know that the horses themselves are not ghost horses because they look and behave like fog, they swirl like fog, I can see the individual drops of moisture in them. But the ghosts, they have this blue tint about them. I never understood why it was called the blues until I saw these ghosts. This particular shade of pigment is the most melancholy thing I have ever seen. And that is just the color. You should see these ghosts. They’re wearing dilapidating wedding gowns and old confederate uniforms. But still, they look like they are having the time of their lives, or they would be, if only they were alive, howling and whooping as they graze by me while I fumble with my keys before the caffeine kicks in.

There is one other instance in which I have seen a bona-fide ghost. I was walking in this park near my house, in a dense thicket of evergreen trees. I came round a corner and there is this cowboy sitting there, in the exact same transparent blue that the fog riding ghosts appear in. He was eating a blue tin of beans over a blue fire. When I saw him, it looked sad, it looked pathetic, I temporarily lost all hope and was at the same time mystified and absorbed by this solitary and inexplicable figure. He motioned for me to sit down across from him. He tried to explain something to me, something about his crimes and how he was so sad and so cursed as a result, but his explanation made no sense and went in circles. Then quit unexpectedly, he went on a rant about the romanticizing of the Old West, and the vapidity of it all, and then told me to shove my damn Levis and my damn dude ranches up my ass. Then he got up and walked off into the trees sobbing.

But ghosts are a bit of a downer subjects, and there are so many more magical things that are much lighter subjects. I see all kinds of crazy, wondrous type things all the time. My dad works for a company that is run by an even more powerful sorcerer, who once summoned an entire third world county, so that his company could have some place to outsource jobs. He also made the inhabitants of neighboring countries very hostile towards the people of this newly summoned country, so that when the company came under investigation for unethical practices in that country, it was simply invaded by its neighbors, and the company collected a fat insurance from the lost infrastructure that cost them nothing to create in the first place.

This sorcerer CEO apparently lives in a mansion inside a glacier, of which he is constantly rearranging the insides according to his whims. He also reportedly rides a hydra to work. But I have not seen any of this, so I do not know whether or not this particular magical happening is true. But I see many things that I know are true, because I see them with my own eyes. I see happy spirits flying out of instruments and speakers that work their way into peoples’ ears and help their brains vibrate at the optimal frequency. Sometimes, spirits jump out of the TV and beat people over the head with 2x4’s. I watch the spirits at the DMV poke people to make them agitated. These spirits also live wild on the street in New York and Boston. There are spirits that live inside onions that get angry when their homes are destroyed, and retaliate by trying to destroy the eyes of the destroyers. These are related to the spirits in chili peppers, who assault the tongues of those who try to eat them. I see them swimming around in bottles of Tabasco sauce and in bowls of salsa. There are also malicious confusion spirits which swim around inside bottles of alcohol.

But there are more spirits out there than the ones that directly affect our senses. I know that cars have spirits. Whenever there are two or more cars left vacant in a parking lot, the car spirits jump out from under the hoods and dance around. Buildings have spirits, sometimes even individual rooms do. They like some people, and dislike others. You can talk to them sometimes by putting your hand on the wall, but you can’t use words; you can only show them memories and hopes. I once got the fire sprinklers in a parking garage to turn on that way on a very hot day.

Most technology operates on some sort of supernatural principle. I know that this sounds like a bit of an oxymoron: how can it be technology, the application of a scientific theory, if it relies on the supernatural? Science is all just an orderly form of magic anyway. Most analog technology relies somehow on the presence of a little man with a crank, in accordance with the conventional wisdom of small children. With digital technology, things get a little more complicated. These are operated by teams of very small and very tempermental gremlins. Sometimes the gremlins cooperate, and sometimes they don’t. That’s just the way it works. When they break, you have to send them back to the manufacturer. The electronics are not actually being fixed. What is actually happening is that a gremlin soothsayer is trying to negotiate with the team, oftentimes ot no avail.

But there are more agreeable teams of gremlins, which live in pacemakers and satellites, things that have to work. The best behave gremlins we sent out into the far reaches of space on the Voyager probes, where they ambassadors for our discretely magical world.

You don’t believe me? Then why don’t you ask the merfolk that live in the tank of my toilet! Why don’t you ask the Jersey Devils and Phantom Kangaroos that live in the park down the street! Why don’t you ask the elves that meet in my basement as they plan their coup to overthrow the Leprechauns! Why don’t you ask my mailman, who is a troll in disguise, and now has to pay the rent on an apartment after he got evicted out from under the highway overpass! Ask the dragon that lives in the bathroom in that gas station by the Mondo-Mart! Ask the family of griffins that have nested in the bell tower of St. Luke’s! Ask the crazy neighborhood cat lady who actually can control her cats and make them do her bidding! Ask my friend who got herpes after being seduced by a succubus. Ask the centaur who landscaped my back yard! Ask the barista at the Starbucks near my house who shoots milk out of her fingertips! Ask the mole people who sued the city for putting a subway tunnel through their colony! Go to the storage room in the public library where gravity has been shifted by about fifteen degrees! Go to the thrift store where the pants dance around once the shop closes! Go anywhere, look hard enough, and it will pop out at you! There are so many things, so many random acts of magic, happening all the time and you just have to look for them, that’s all it takes!

I wish I could show you these things. I wish I could show you some of these random acts of magic, or maybe even commit one or two myself. Would that change things? Would I somehow be able to show you that the world is beautiful or that everything is alright and that you shouldn’t have to be sad about what doesn’t happen? Would I be a better person for that? Am I just some asshole who doesn’t even really know what’s going on, so he makes things up in his head to compensate? I want to show these things to you.

I could get that staff out of my closet and make sparks fly around. I could get out my little genie rock and tell you what bums on the street are thinking. I could wake you up early one foggy morning and show you the ghosts. I could crack open my DVD player and show you the gremlins inside. Would that reconcile everything in this crazy universe?

I guess I’m wondering if telling you about these magical happenings would make any difference at all, make you ok with your role in the world, show you that it’s something we’re all a part of. But even though you don’t think so, even though you were never smacked over the head with a formal notification, I know for certain that you are capable of random acts of magic.

History/Mystery

History is a mystery because we are always sifting through the stories to find out whodunnit. Did the Indian really use every part of the buffalo? Or did they throw out some of the more awkward parts? Did the Pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock really befriend them like we are told in kindergarten when we learn about the first Thanksgiving? Or was it by coercion that the Pilgrims learned to plant fishcorn? All this sleuthing for artifacts and interrogations for primary source are all going to lead us to some spectacular, elementary-my-dear-Watson, it all makes sense now kind of denouement where we have figured everything out exactly as it happened and thereafter anyone who has a different interpretation is a revisionist asshole with an agenda and everything is absolute and there are never any unsettling questions to be asked, right? Unfortunately for those who want one version of the past that suits their station, the answers are fluid and slip thorugh our minds as time goes by, and we need to come crawling back to Baker Street, or maybe this time go to a more seedy, trench coat-clad private eye who will rough guys up for answers and sleep with some dame in the process. History is not simple. That doesn't suit you? Too bad. You're living it.

Let's all go to Rockland

Sorry for the slew of short posts. I'm just trying to crank out material so that I have relatively frequent updates. Longer, better thought out out posts will come soon.

This is a fact: I am not Allen Ginsberg. I do not want to be Allen Ginsberg, but in some ways I am disappointed that I am not Allen Ginsberg. No one is Allen Ginsberg anymore. Now, I'm sure that this is painfully obvious, because as of 1997 he is permanently in a state that could be described as "dead." Now, death didn't stop Paul McCartney, as he is still performing and receiving media attention to this date, but from most people, Allen Ginsberg included, being dead makes you no longer existent.

Not being Allen Ginsberg means that I will not be tried for obscenity. In the last sixty years, we have pushed the boundaries of obscenity to the point where "Birthday Sex" is completely radio friendly. Had it been released in 1956, the same year as "Howl," Jeremih's court date would be right after Ginsberg's. Today, "Howl" wouldn't shock anyone. I could write a poem about smoking the sperm of endangered species of owls while caressing my masturbatory broomstick while fondling an eight year old boy in a back alley of Kuala Lumpur, read it on the streets, and people would hear it and say "that's been done before." Today, everything is obscene, meaning that nothing is obscene. Getting high on peyote in your Nob Hill apartment and seeing the face of Moloch in a hotel facade is, well, if not commonplace, at least not too out of the ordinary. I'm with you in Rockland, but so is everyone else. All the limits have been pushed; Dada has happened, 4'33" has happened, the Beat Generation has happened, flower power has happened, punk has happened, free jazz has happened. They have all happened. It is time to move on. We can't keep trying to write beat poetry. We can't keep trying to be Ornette Coleman. We can't keep smelling bad and driving colorful VW buses. We can't keep not being able to play bass but still be the bass player in a band.

If we're going to keep asking "what is art?" then we need to do things that haven't been done instead of imitating what was once pushing the limits.

And is a blog by an aspiring science fiction writer who thinks that his dead car was a spaceship pushing the limits? No. Like I said, I am not Allen Ginsberg. None of us are. So let's forge our own paths, and if they lead into obscenity, then more power to us.

Halloweenomics

It's important to find your niche. I have found my niche, and as a result, have a virtually unlimited supply of candy, albeit one with not very much variety.

I am the one person on earth who actually likes Almond Joys. Every other person on God's Spaceship Earth hates Almond Joy. Growing up, about one in fifteen houses would give out Almond Joy, apparently because they hated children and wanted to ruin their Halloweens by giving them inedible candy. Somehow, all this excess Almond Joy would find its way in my direction. I would get free candy by eating other peoples' unwanted junk. I had found my own economic niche.

But there must be something more to this holiday than excessive consumption of empty calories, acts of vandalism and hijinks, excessive drinking and low budget zombie movies, right? Of course not, and that's why Halloween is the best holiday of the year.

Have a good one.

Digital Anthems

"All this machinery making modern music

Can still be open hearted,

Not so coldly charted, it's really just a question

Of your honesty, yeah your honesty."

-Rush, "Spirit of Radio"

I do not own any vinyl. I will not deny this.

Anyone who owns vinyl will tell you that it is something you need to have, the benefits being the sound quality and, I suppose, being able to look down on people who don't have vinyl. When people tell me "you need to get your hands on some vinyl," they say it as if not owning vinyl is something that I'm supposed to feel bad about. Not that I'm just missing something, but that I'm depriving myself of something essential and doing an injustice to the artist. I have no interest in purchasing or owning any vinyl. Maybe I'm missing something by not hearing the sound so crisply that I feel like I'm front row at the Blue Note, getting a facefull of Chet Baker's spittle, but as a child of a post-industrial America I'm willing to say that vinyl is useless to me.

This goes beyond the fact that I do not own a record player. The way we consume music now is radically different; the entire equation has been changed. Each song is now a packet of digital information that is portable, duplicable, and easily accessed. You can do some of that with vinyl, you can get good at using a turntable and seamlessly switching between songs, but there is nothing that come close to the versatility of digitized music. The way I perceive it, I don't "own" the song unless it is in the same digital library as the rest of the music that I "own." So vinyl, unless I were to convert it into an mp3 file, rendering the vinyl aspect irrelevant, has no value. Yes, we are losing something in sound quality, no one will pretend otherwise. Music is consumed and perceived differently now, ever so slightly. This is not better or worse because it is new. Vinyl is not better or worse because it is old. This is just different.

This is Progress. Progress happens and you might as well make it work for you.

Escape Velocity

"I wanted to be a spaceman

That's what I wanted to be

But now that I am a spaceman

Nobody cares about me"

-Harry Nilsson, "Spaceman"

"So you're a literature major... What do you want to do with that?"

"I want to be a writer."

"So like, what kind of stuff do you want to write?"

"Fiction."

"What kind of fiction?"

"Well um... actually, I want to write... science fiction, among other things."

This is a conversation that I have been having a lot lately. I feel like the epitome of lame when I tell people that I want to write science fiction. I might as well take to playing Warhammer, wear coke-bottle glasses, and frequently describe things as "purely plasmodial!"

Growing up, I wanted to be an astronaut. That was until I first got on a roller coaster and spent the next hour praying to the porcelain gods. I also found out that my eyes are not up to snuff. I am not physically perfect enough to be an astronaut, and I probably don't have the grades either. I am not good enough to be an astronaut. I will never go to space.

Nor will you, most likely. No matter where on earth you are, you are less than 65 miles from outer space. I am closer to outer space right now than I am to Concretestan. It takes maybe ten bucks of gas to get to Concretestan with current gas prices. To outfit, launch, and maintain a space shuttle flight costs somewhere on the order of $1.5 billion. And that won't even get me escape velocity. Funding an Apollo mission in today's dollars would cost somewhere around $145 billion. Building and launching spaceships is incredibly costly and requires more numbers than could ever be held in my brain. I am not intelligent enough to build spaceships. I am not intelligent enough to send people to space.

I know why I write, and that is because through writing, I can make anything happen. I may not be perfect enough to man spaceships (with the exception of my beloved Spaceship Earth), I may not be intelligent enough to build spaceships, but I can write about spaceships. And by writing about spaceships, if I do it well enough, I can take anyone to space.

In all reality, there will likely not be another man (or woman) on the moon for the next thirty years. NASA will continue to receive less and less funding, along with the European Space Agency. China, or maybe India, could potentially send more people up, but as of right now their space programs are still nascent.

We blew our wad by winning the space race. We rushed into space exploration without taking time to do things right, and in doing so we missed out on a lot of opportunities. Getting to the moon turned into a pissing contest for national pride, rather than an opportunity to create a sustainable space program that would maintain continued progress. Space exploration is not as advanced as we think it is. Despite the optimism of some scientists, my generation will all be dead before someone walks on Mars, and our children and their children will be dead before we get to the other side of the asteroid belt.

I will be providing the next best thing to going to space. I want to go to space, and I'm sure many others do as well. That is what I want to write science fiction. That is what I want to tell people when I have the aforementioned conversation. But I just watch the wheels turn in their brain as they realize how unbelievably lame I am.

The Insomniac Symphony

"Time is the essence

Time is the season

Time ain't no reason

Got no time to slow

Time everlasting

Time to play besides

Time ain't on my side

Time I'll never know"

Blue Öyster Cult, "Burnin' for You"

Program Notes

Because of my rather disastrous burnout my season is now over. October isn't even over and I'm already taking time off before base building for track. My coach told me to do something that I had always wanted to do, but never could because of my training. I am taking this opportunity to venture into the wide world of insomnia, because it has always been something that I wanted to experience. Here are my observations, in all of their late night/early morning glory.

Allegro: Space-Time

Space time is not something that I fear anymore. If sleep is not important, then I have more time to do things. This gives me a theoretical eight extra hours. I look at the clock, I laugh at the clock. I am laughing at time, because time no longer scares me. And time is the only thing that makes us aware of space, and the distance between things. Therefore I am afraid of neither time nor space. I am not afraid of space-time. I'll fight black holes, wormholes, neutron stars, Higgs-Bosons, whatever the universe throws at me, I'll take 'em! I'll break the speed of light, I don't care if those PhD's say I can't do it. So what, they have their hadron colliders and their fancy lab in Switzerland, but they are still afraid of the very fabric of which they are made. I have transcended science. I am an insomniac, for the time being anyway.

Schertzo: Coffee

It has been several months since my last cup of coffee. My life goal is this: I can only consume coffee if I am in a social situation, and I will have the minimum possible amount of caffeine, short of ordering decaf. I refuse to use caffeine for any utilitarian function. At a certain point, everyone who drinks coffee needs coffee. You know why the best part of waking up is Folger's in your cup? Because you're a fucking addict! "I'm a coffee drinker." "I'm a vegetarian." "I'm addicted to methamphetamine and as a result am HIV positive." All part of the same spectrum. No caffeine for me.

With that in mind, I decided to have four cups of coffee in twenty minutes.

I think I was part of an experiment, but I can't be sure. All I know is that there was a video camera in the room, and I had to sign a release before I could enter. (Maybe they just know that my squiggles will be valuable some day.) I think that the experiment was observing people talking in a room to study human interaction. They lured people in with free coffee and various munchables. There was sugar, Splenda, and powdered milk solid available, but I know that stuff is for pussies. I take my coffee like I take my men! (Oh my, I am tired.)

There were two types of people in the room: those who were there for the conversation and those that were there for the coffee. I was there for the conversation but ended up living by the old maxim: "when in Rome, attend a morally depraved spectacle of gratuitous violence, slaughter and assimilate indigenous people, and eat so much that you vomit all over the the entryway to your home in a proto-bulimic binge-and-purge cycle." So I had some coffee.

I sat there, gulping down bitter liquid. This girl comes in, and once she sees the coffee start to flow into her mug, she sighs and says "ambrosia," her voice quivering as she does so. We really are a society of addicts.

So twenty minutes and four cups of coffee later I start to notice something: my hands are moving. I am not really aware of this, nor am I consciously making it happen, but I am gesturing at something. I am apparently very passionate about whatever this object of my gesturing is. And I am talking, a lot, and there is just this fountain of bullshit coming out of my mouth. I am moving energy with my hands, I can almost see it! I am buzzing. Off of coffee! This does not make sense but it is happening. I get another cup. I am holding it in my hand. I am holding power in my hand. The energy seeps out of the cup and into my hand, energy through osmosis, my power level is over 9000! Power, there is power in my stride and power in my gaze, or there would be, if only I could look at something for more than a few seconds.

This is how they hook you. This is how and Starbucks and all those other trendy froth coming out their asses places rope you in. You can buy power in a cup. You don't need to sleep because now you can just get your energy over the counter. You get something without working for it, you take a shortcut to your basic human needs. And like anything else that you don't work for, it becomes meaningless, because eventually, it goes away and you're crawling back for more and pouring out your wallet so you can function again. We want the benefits without the sacrifice and we get both.

"Ambrosia." I'm fine with my food for mortals, thankyouverymuch.

Adagio: Panda Sauce

Orange chicken sauce, now that is ambrosia. It is made from everything bad for you: high fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated oils, MSG, and enough dye to render a whale infertile. Nothing tastes better in the wee small hours of the morning (while the whole wide world is fast asleep / you lie awake, and think about the girl / and never ever think of counting sheep) than refrigerated then nuked orange chicken. I don't care if it clogs my arteries, ruptures my pancreas, and turns my balls into barren bundles of oh-so-sensitive nerves, I will allow myself this one transcendental moment of pure indulgence. Because in two weeks, two weeks time, this haphazard existence will end and it will be back to my labors.

Finale: Structure vs. Volume

I live life differently than most people my age. My life is based on a routine. Yes, I may deviate from that routine, but the routine is the structure and the maintenance of that structure, and the benefits of that maintenance, are what motivate me to get things done.

For most other people my age, life is based on events. They get things done so that they can cram as many events into a frame of time as possible.

They measure success by entertainment. I measure success by the process of completing a task. One of these days, things will switch.

They will go into the wide world of jobs and careers and families and garages and bills to pay. If things go as planned, I will live life for experiences and the chance to grow with every misadventure, failure, and rake stepped on. They think that this is their last chance at youth. But that is only if they choose to grow up. (At this point anyway), I don't really care about financial stability and hallmarks of success. I just want to tell stories.

"I remember being that way when I was your age."

"Well I'm on a mission. Were you on a mission? That's what I thought."

IV-V7-I-V7-I

(pause, cough, is it over?)

ba-dommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

(Applause)

Burnout

"It's better to burn out

Than to fade away"

-Neil Young, "My My, Hey Hey"

Something is wrong. When I say that, I mean that there is something wrong presently and superficially. I have DNFed my last three workouts with the team, and the last ten minutes of my "long" run last Sunday, ten miles of stumbling, felt as though I was swimming. Everything from biking to calss to getting up to take a leak in the middle of the night feels like a daunting effort. I'm trying to think of an explanation. It is not anemia, I know that. My ferritin count is 61, a number which Bethany says she would give her pinkie finger to have. It can't be mono, because I've already got that out of the way. My sleep has been good. I took three days very easy and that didn't help. I may be going flat, burning out. June 20th was the last time I took a day off. I am fatigued beyond belief. I just want to lie down right here. I want to hibernate.

I may have been starting to go flat the week before the time trial, but three days easy and adrenaline allowed me to gut it out. That may have given me a little shot in the arm that lasted to Interior Concretestan Invite. Kinetic Village probably took a lot out of me, too. Right now my quads are ravaged and I feel as though I am going to collapse just sitting here, watching my laundry dance in the dryer.

Maybe my problems run deeper. The superficial wrongness is simply a symptom of deeper wrongness. I may just have a case of bitch. I am still just a 9:50 guy or a ten flat guy even, who got lucky and now gets an opportunity to try another four or five years of pretending he has potential.

I didn't think I would still be running at this point. I was sure I would be done by the time trial. That was back in April when I was still a nine-fifty-crap two miler and a four-thirty-crap miler. That day at Edward's Stadium I ran through a solid iron door just as it was slamming shut. I considered myself so lucky, I had done the impossible. Now I realize that I had only begun to challenge the impossible. I realize that I may have ended up on the wrong side of that door.

That door is made of something heavy and metallic, but wherever I am is certainly not metal. I am not sure of the size or the scope of this chamber, or if it is any kind of enclosed space at all. It is a place where everything is moving quickly yet subtly and being still for a moment will get you crushed, smashed, mangled, maimed, exsanguinated, defenestrated, or just have the life force sucked out of you by some vaguely human but obviously alien proboscis. This is the place where we live now. There is no sky or floor, only a forest with strange machines filling up any empty or habitable spaces. Welcome to living the dream, asshole!

So since I am here now, what do I do? I am in a place where I have an opportunity. I may not be on the pleasant side of those hungry iron doors, but I am on the side where I can better myself. Most people are on the pleasant side where they can afford to make mistakes and afford to live a life with little routine, live a life without standing on the edge of physical reality and leaning forward. They can find little meaningless gems of meaning in the wee small hours of the morning. I know these people and love these people, but I cannot be one of them, at least while there is still work to do, while there is still an opportunity to better myself as best I can.

A week ago I had a dream. My dad was driving me to the time trial, and we were arguing about the same bullshit we always argue about. At some point, I challenged his masculinity. He pulls over and says "oh yeah, well look what I just bought!" as he reaches for the glove compartment.

He pulls out a Glock.

"How does just having a gun make you a man?" I ask. "Or are you trying to compensate for something?"

"It's not the fact that I have a gun," he says. "It's what I'm about to do with it." He puts it right up to the back of my head.

"You're too much of a bitch to pull the trigger," I say. "You're trying to prove yourself but you can't.  You're too much of a bitch."

Then he points the gun at my knee and fires ten rounds right above my patella. "Good luck with your running career now, asshole!"

But in the real world, I am still intact.