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You’re Killing Me, Brandon

It’s spring and my spikes are hanging from a doorknob.

How to be addicted to having second thoughts about having quit track:

Mix: sprinters, losers, winners, Brandon Flowers, sweat, crying, yelling, yelling, Pre, yelling, a lot of ouch, not enough oxygen, and a couple of unfunny, anti-inspirational puns.

Put them all in a blender.

It works!


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Dear April,

It’s about time, buddy.

T.S. Eliot can douse his lyrical potpourri in a tubful of kerosene and watch it burn in the springtime sun, because you are about to prove (for the nineteenth year in a row) that you are actually the most glorious month of the year, you’re the reason why the other 335 days are worth living. You’re the smooth operator, the perfect situation, the girl in the war, and the clarity that, against every expectation, gives every smudge and stain a raison d’etre.

It’s been a while since we last saw each other, so here’s an update on things:
– I still haven’t run since cross country
– I still watch the O.C. on bad days
– I still want to marry Alex Stevens
– I still don’t know where I’m going to live come September

Conclusion: May – March is only good for retrograde motion and downloading TV

I think we can both agree that it wasn’t fair for you to just pack up and leave me to fend for myself for 11 months, so I think you’ll find these to be more than reasonable:

List of Demands

1. There was a time when hearing Hey There Delilah didn’t make me want to stomp the speakers into dust. I want this back. I do.

2. A muse would be kind of cool, maybe a mini Michael Jackson.

3. A 60 degree minimum, starting now.

4. My dad’s definition of Adulthood could use some tweaking, in Tom Hank/Joe Fox’s use of the word.

Much appreciated, you’re the best.