Maybe the rain hates you

In case anyone was wondering just how out of shape I am right now, I just ran about 2/5ths of a mile and I want to die. Granted, I was running full sprint pretty much the whole time, and that's actually not the smallest amount in the world (it's roughly 700 yards), but still. It's amazing I'm even able to type this right now. When I got to my building I tried to bound up the steps and it felt like I was wearing lead weights around my ankles. My shins are throbbing. My lungs are only just now ceasing to feel like they were filled with rust. I felt like I was on the verge of blackout, and my head still feels so heavy I can't hold it straight up - it's like there's a bowling ball on my shoulders that happens to contain my eyes.

No, I'm not proud of any of these things. In fact, it's fairly alarming. I already knew that I wasn't much for running at the current time, but the very idea that a 700-yard dash would leave me feeling on the verge of a massive coronary attack is something that should scare anyone. On top of all that, I've been hovering perilously close to 200 pounds for a while now, a weight I promised myself, a long time ago, that I would never reach, and that if I approached it I would take that as a starting point to get into better shape. Well, I've been putting it off, but I don't think I can put it off any longer. In the words of Sam Cooke, a change is gonna come. I'm starting something - though I think I'll brainstorm with my dad on exactly what - this weekend, at the latest.

So, what brought all this on? Rain. I hate it so much. Yeah, I knew it was supposed to rain today, but to me "showers" means a different thing from "totally fucking pouring." My shirt and pants are hanging over the shower rod, they're so wet. I just hope my cell phone, which was in my pocket and thus barely protected at all, so wet was it, is okay.