It seems the beginning of 2020 has left me paralyzed with nothingness. Wait, no, that’s way too hyperbolic. Actually, I’ve just been a fleshy ball of slack and the innocent victim of uninspired connubial relations betweenst mythological weather makers.
My excuses are longer than a porn star’s manhood. My slack is stronger than a pre-castrated bull. And my waistline’s girth and body weight are that of a Mart-Cart fatty with a basket full of Ding Dongs and Mountain Dew.
I’ve never been a great writer, but enjoy writing; thus, the continued publication of this blog. Sorry?
However, in the past couple of months, my posts have become more subpar than usual. One of the major factors has been the appearance of Lola (the dog) in my life. I love her, but she’s a puppy and puppies need near constant attention lest ye have your living room shat upon and chewed to bits. Every week she gets a little better, but finding moments of peace to sit down and write can be difficult when home alone.
After a fun time in the woods on my mountain bike Sunday morning, I was hoping for more of that today. Sadly, a Memorial Day spent mulching and planting, and Tuesday morning rains and house duties had me settling for a quick hike around the Bundy Hill Preserve.
The thing about a Michigan spring is that there is no Michigan spring. Sure, it doesn’t snow as much, but steady rain and 39˚ does not make a spring, nor do sunny skies, 40˚ temps with 30 MPH winds to make it feel like it’s 25˚.
A 60˚ day of pleasure will be offered forth from the raised robes of Ma Nature on occasion, but for the most part, we just freeze our tits off nine months out of the year and roast our balls/lady bits off the other 3. I don’t know why I bother typing any of this, it is what it is, and I can do nothing but do what I do: pack on another layer of blubber, never put away my collection of flannel shirts, and buy another 12 pack of IPA to drink as I sit and wait for the brief respite of summer.
I have officially stopped trying to do a post in which I recap my trip to Jamaica. Since our return, I have been sick with the worst chest cold I’ve had in my life, AND I’m on the 2nd round of antibiotics in an attempt to heal my leg that I knocked/cut on a boat ladder in the ocean. In addition to that, Wifey picked up my chest cold, and we have had multiple ice storms that have left mid-Michigan ensconced in ice and frozen snow.
OK, I said I wouldn’t talk about riding indoors ’cause it’s not really riding, and there’s not too much to say about it. I’ve done a pretty good job with that, and there’s only been a few mentions of Zwifting on the Hammer in the Not So Stankment, but it appears that I am about to do it again. I’m sorry, but there’s more, trust me!
I can’t seem to find much to write about these days. Hell, I can barely find anything I want to do other than sleep, eat, and drink beer.
When I was growing up back in Western PA, I was part of a small group of neighborhood kids somewhat close in age. In the years before the awkwardness of junior high and high school started up, we would play kickball, stickball, tag, and hide and seek late into the firefly filled humid summer nights before heading inside for bath time, snacks, and watching CHiPs on TV.
