Ruh-roh

I don't know what is up with my stomach, but it is not good. I'm going to chalk it up to stress about my impending race, coupled with the recent resignation of a co-worker, along with increased consumption of dried apricots. But knowing me, it's the onset of swine flu, and I will die, tragically and ironically, 3 hours and 59 minutes from the time of my diagnosis.

Laying low this morning and eating bland things with the hopes of putting in an appearance at the gym tonight. (Because it's not like I'm going to come home and throw back a few brewskies after work. Frown face).

Oh, that reminds me. My friend Brennan is a hilarious genius, and called me yesterday evening to see what I was up to. The voicemail, in its entirety:

Hello Clairence McBeasley. It’s your Boner. I’m just calling to see what you’re up to this evening. I didn’t know if you’d be going out for a brewsky or two - oh fuck. The marathon. Fuck my balls. Okay you may not be doing that.

Anyways, can’t wait for all this nonsense to end. Just kidding. It is not nonsense it’s wonderful. But! I would like to meet you for a brewsky, post-marathon.

Fuck my balls, indeed. Happy Friday, my friends. We did it.