Kobe Beef Curtains

I'm experiencing a surge of post illness positivity right now. All the gremlins have left mein digestive system, and I no longer feel like a garbage bag full of catfish. My brain is rejoicing. I don't know if it's an endorphin kick or just the relief of not having to treat my body like a tender foal, but I feel damn good.

I conclude that this positive mood is a gift from some celestial force that's telling me, "Hey there, my special little treasure. It's me, Glappy! You've survived another illness, and I've decided to reward you. Boom! This is what joy feels like. Pretty nice, huh? Don't get too comfy though, because it's not gonna last very long. Go on, eat up while it's still fresh, ya fat bitch!"





Onto another topic...

...I've been thinking about how completing a marathon is now a socially acceptable goal for boring people, and how it's considered to be an admirable endeavor. What a crock of boxcar taco tits! Contrary to what your glue-sniffing cousin says, lung pain isn't "fun". Those aren't smiles on people's faces at the finish line, they're the physical manifestations of torment and regret.




Unless you're training to outrun the apocalypse, I don't see the point. What's the upside, anyway? Epic blisters? Bloody armpits?

And for the people dedicating marathons to their dead relatives, I have some bad news - it isn't going to make your uncles breathe again, claw their way up from the grave, and give you Christmas presents. Even if they did, the presents would just be boxes filled with dirt. Dead people don't give good gifts, which is why I want to be buried with an anchor around my neck to prevent me from reanimating and going to birthday parties.





One more thing...




Smell ya later, my special little treasures.