Alarm clock goes off.
I should go for a run.
Turn alarm off, dream of Neil Patrick Harris being a terrorist and I’m the only one who can stop him, but his magician background—and help from Julianne Hough—make him exceedingly hard to catch.
Whoa. That was weird. I should go for a run. But it’s 11 a.m. Might be too hot. I’ll have coffee and breakfast first.
I made a lot of coffee. It’s definitely too hot and sunny to run now. And the garbage trucks are coming up and down the streets. The smell out of that truck will knock the wind right out of me. It’s best to just sit here and read the Internet for a bit.
Cool breeze blows through window.
Oh, that breeze feels nice. I bet it’s not too hot.
But can’t I just enjoy that cool breeze here, from the couch, while catching up on the news and planning my weekend?
Or, maybe I can drive to Wollaston Beach and run there! I bet it’s gorgeous out by the water today.
I should conserve gas and just run in Forest Hills Cemetery.
But it was closed to the public due to downed trees the other day. Maybe it’s still closed. The website doesn’t say. And you don’t want to do that cockamamie route through St. Michael’s Cemetery. And you definitely don’t want to run past a couple making out and some creepy dude standing watch like you did on Tuesday.
OK. Time to put on my running clothes. That’s one step closer to fitness.
Why do my running clothes smell like spaghetti sauce? I’d better sit down and ponder this.
Listen up, self. Seriously. You have nothing to do until 2:30. Get your white ass up off this couch and run.