Tag Archives | being a slacker

Normal’s Just a Word

I don’t want to say I feel like I’m back to normal, but I’m feeling about as normal as I’ve felt in a long time. Physically, of course, the S.S. Mental Normality sailed long ago and is presumed sunk at the bottom of the ocean with no survivors.

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M.O.T.S.

Most of my days since the last post were spent doing more of the same stuff: snowshoeing, Zwift™-ing, making/eating food, drinking beer, watching football, self-loathing, and cursing my existence. The usual.

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Snowshoes & Black Beans

Other than sleeping, the motivation for “doing stuff”1 has been low. Like, old man testies sort of low. Still, I’ve managed to do what I can with the scraps of motivation I have left in me after a month-long illness, a seriously infected cut on my leg, a self-esteem that’s plunging further and further into the nether regions of my stank anus of a psyche, and a winter that shows no sign of releasing its murderous grip from Michigan’s throat.

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Beating Dead Horses

I know, I know, I’ve been beating dead horses, playing on repeat, stuck in a rut, flogging the bishop, and smacking my mackerel for two weeks now. OK, maybe not those last two but all the rest applies; I’ll explain.

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Parking Lots & Winter Hikes

There are very few wintertime activities that bring me real, actual joy (drinking beer and masturbation don’t really count as wintertime activities, those are year-rounders). I’ve tried cross country skiing, and I’ve ridden my fat bike on snow-covered gravel many a time, but any attempt to ride “groomed” trails has always left me thinking I should have done something else.

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GoNotSoPro™ Time

Wifey and I are going out of the country for the first time ever in a couple of weeks; Jamaica if you must know. Not my first choice for my first time leaping fuck face Trump’s “wall” around the U.S., but it looks like it’s going to be a killer time celebrating our 20th anniversary (1.5 years later) with another couple we’re good friends who are celebrating their 25th. Sun, beach, warm water, rum, and boobs; that’s pretty much all I need to survive. As documented here, I’m a woodsy-type of guy, but there’s something to be said for being a beach sloth. And rum.

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