I’m on my way out to run intervals. I’m not looking forward to it that much. I prefer to save my projectile vomiting for the Eggnog Mile.
I’m sitting here trying to summon my inner Bad-Ass. Then I look down at my sock.
Oh, well. I just hope there’s a hopspcotch course somewhere along the way …
update: Mo comes home and laughs at the sock. I declare that at least the other one is a little more macho. She disagrees.
Mo is not a nice person.