After the last week’s physical debacle, I was stoked to wake up on Saturday morning to near darkness and rain pissing down. That meant I could sit around like the mentally challenged obese sloth that I am and rest my back and shoulder without guilt. And ditto for Sunday, thank you very much.
When Monday and the start of another week of fresh hell arrived, I was eager to do something physical and returned to the gym for some time on the treadmill and light strength training.
Monday was one of those days that got away from me, and I never got around to “doing stuff.” So, I told myself that I would force myself outside Tuesday morning for a hike no matter what.
I managed to mentally bounce back last week and made up for my lack of doing stuff outside with two productive photo creeps at Meridian Park on Thursday and Sunday and a hot and muggy 5.25-mile hike at Deerfield Park on Friday.
Last week was a pretty sweet week of “doing stuff.” It contained multiple trips to the gym to lift heavy things for no reason and nearly 20 miles of hiking and creeping around the woods with my camera.
Then there’s this week.
The planets seemed to align for me on Thursday morning when the steady rain stopped just before I hit “publish” on my last post of unintelligible nothingness, and a Noon appointment I had was changed to 1 PM, thus allowing me to squeeze in a 3-mile hike at Deerfield Park. There was much rejoicing.
The following is a big ol’ dump of photos from the past few days. There are tiny flowers, bugs, birds, birds WITH bugs, dogs, toads, frogs, and a couple of my favorite gingers.
Most of these photos have shown up in my Instagram feed recently, but here you can actually see some details in the photos without selling your soul to Meta or whatever Zuckerberg calls his money-grubbing shit show these days.
This post comes to you with all the enthusiasm of a blind man entering a strip club. Of course, based on some of the strip clubs I’ve unfortunately been in during the early “bachelor party days” of my life (looking at you, Hi-Way Playground in Washington County, PA, circa 1996 with your free stage-side pizza), that’s probably a good thing. I digress.
In all my 17+ years of writing this shit-show, I finally find myself with a bit of writer’s block. Whilst the masses rejoice in knowing they are safe from my long-winded posts of sophomoric humor, tales of self-loathing, sub-par chubby middle-aged white guy pseudo adventures, and nonsensical word salad, I bemoan my stifled mind.
Just a quick post to prove that I’m still alive. I know the value of that is questioned by many, including myself, but I’m still here, just like that faded mustard stain on your favorite Superchunk t-shirt1. It’s just that life has been busy with many un-blog-worthy things.
It’s Friday morning, and I’m writing this to kill some time before going to the gym to lift heavy things for no reason. I am also writing in an attempt to cajole the last shreds of motivation in my mind into doing such an absurd thing. I feel like a sassy $5 hooker talking up my game to any pedestrian walking down my side of the street. And as you might imagine, motivational talk from someone who is blindly confidant yet so clearly undervalues their talents is not great. Of course, I’m also trying to quash the mental snapshot of myself wearing a crop top, booty shorts, pink wig, fishnets, and combat boots as I hustle my side of the cul de sac. “$5, and I’ll show you the time of your life. Where else are you gonna get chlamydia this good? ‘Cmon, baby.” Or something like that.