I’ve spent most of today reading parts of three different books. My eyeballs are like, Enough already. My brain is like, Amen–Are you sure you want to do this for a living? Because I’m a multi-tasker, I’ve also spent the afternoon stretching and–consequently–saying “shit” a lot. At one point I was on my back, legs up the wall, doing the splits. Honestly, if I hadn’t been alone, it would’ve been really kinky. But since I was, it was just uncomfortable. My dad said, “It’s Friday night. You don’t have any plans?” I said, “No, Dad, I’m single AF.” Mom said, “What’s AF?” I said, “As fuck.” (We’ve had this conversation before, but–by her own admission–she has chemotherapy brain. I try to think of it like the movie Groundhog Day, which makes it more fun.)

One of the books I’m currently reading is called The Flood Girls by Richard Fifield. I’m honestly overloaded with things to read right now, but my friend Marla gave it to me, so it got bumped to the top of the list. (Talk about influence.) It’s about a former alcoholic slut who returns to her hometown to make amends with her mother, who coaches a local softball team (The Flood Girls) and also owns a bar where lesbians, miners, and lesbian miners hang out. The daughter befriends a fabulous teenage homosexual named Jake, and that’s about as far as I’ve gotten. But at one point Jake describes the daughter as “chin up, tits out,” and I haven’t been able to get that phrase out of my head since I read it. I mean, I have been focused on posture lately. But maybe it just reminds me to walk with confidence.

Chin up, tits out.

After an entire afternoon and evening of reading, I thought, I’ve got to get out of the house–I’ve got to go for a run, which may have had to do with the fact that I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (pure sugar) and drank half a pot of coffee for lunch. I don’t know–I’m not a scientist. So I threw on some shorts, laced up my sneakers, and hit the pavement. Oh, and I also threw off my shirt because the last time I ran for any length of time with my shirt on, my nipples were NOT happy the next day. I guess that’s nipple friction for you. Still, it was the most action they’ve seen since Obama was president, so they obviously can’t be pleased.

Personally, I think the spirit was stronger than the body tonight. Almost the entire run, which was lit by the waxing gibbous moon, I could feel the muscles in my right leg screaming, “You’ve–got–to–be–kidding–oh–shit–that’s–another–hill.” But since my pace was easy, my chin was up, and my tits were literally out, I thought, This is no time for quitting. Well, it turned out to be a personal milestone–8.6 miles. Woo-who! (Whether you’re single AF or not, it’s okay to be your own cheering section.) Granted, I may not be able to walk tomorrow, but–again–I don’t have any plans, so it won’t be a problem to stay home, take a bunch of drugs, and recover.

When I got home from the run, hoping to minimize the damage, I spent quite a while doing even more stretches, saying “shit” even more. My body was so tired, I had to use the furniture to brace myself and keep from falling over. Imagine trying to balance after a fifth of whiskey–that’s what it looked like. I kept thinking of that cartoon of the Tin Man in yoga class, the one with the thought bubble over his head that says, “This is bullshit.”

Speaking of bullshit, I think the ants in the plant across the room have found their way to the futon where I’m typing. I killed one I found on my neck earlier, and now my ankle is itching like crazy. Add that to the fact that I can barely hold my head up, my IT band feels like it’s about to pop, and I’m hungry (and did I mention single?) AF, and I’m pretty much not amused. Breathe, Marcus, breathe.

Eat, Marcus, Eat. (Be right back.)

Okay, that’s better. I just ate half a grapefruit and an individual serving of cranberry almond chicken salad. But get this shit. The box for the chicken salad cups said, “Eight singles.” I thought, Geez, you don’t have to rub it in.

Recently I finished a book by a spiritual teacher named James Swartz. I’m actually going to hear him speak, and I found out today that the event got moved from the middle of September to middle of October. At first I thought, Shit, but then I thought, Well, maybe that will work out better. Anyway, James says that life is a zero-sum game. I think the idea is that we spend so much time thinking we need to get something–more money, a better body, someone to go the movies and have sex with. But for everything we gain, we give something up. So you get your best run, but then your muscles are tight the next day. You get a relationship, but then you’re attached. In the end, no one is really better off than when they started.

I mean, in the end, you’re dead.

This is an idea I’m just starting to warm up to. I’ve spent so much time thinking I need to get, get, get, and only occasionally do I remember that I’m one little human on a huge planet in the middle of a gigantic universe. Like, maybe having a six-pack isn’t such a big deal after all. But I do like that thought, that there’s nothing to really gain or lose here, except perhaps an experience. And who’s to say that one experience is better than another? We spend all this time trying to change ourselves, but Joseph Campbell says, “The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.” Maybe if we remembered that, more of us would be chin up, tits out, confident AF.