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[ava doesn't like feels]

Grab a box of tissues and get ready for the feels…

This Story of a Dog’s Last Day on Earth is Beautiful and Utterly Heartbreaking

(via BuzzFeed)

I made the mistake of reading the above post before I had to get ready to go to work. (If you’ve ever had to apply makeup while fighting back body-heaving, ugly crying, then I salute you. You know what a feat of strength that is.) It struck a nerve, as I have a furry buddy of my own.



Ava <3



Ava <3

I managed to get myself together and finish getting ready for work, but throughout the day, I’d think about ol’ Duke and the tears would well up again. And all I could think about (other than Duke, and how awesome dogs are in general) is how good it would feel if I could just get a good cry out. I wasn’t sad about anything in particular, but reading Duke’s story jump-started something in me that needed to be let out. Sometimes, you just need that release that only the aforementioned body-heaving ugly crying can provide. You just need to let it all out and welcome the empty peacefulness that follows, like you’ve just dumped out a bucket that was filled to the brim, unable to hold another drop.

But I wasn’t about to do it at work. I don’t like crying in front of people in general, much less those I’ve only known for about four months. And to have to explain that I was crying because of something I read on BuzzFeed would have been extra awkward, because, really, how do you react to that? Would comforting the crying person be the correct course of action since nothing really happened to him or her? Do you just tip your imaginary hat with an, “Alrighty then,” and make your exit? This particular situation is really a gray area in the realm of social interaction.

I just waited until I got home from work.

I pulled up the post. Read it all again. Studied the images. Read the follow up post. My lower lip trembled. My face scrunched up. And then I was crying. Ugly crying. Where you have to stop just long enough to take in a big, gasping, gulp of air before going at it again. The kind of crying where your face is all red and splotchy, eyes are puffy, and snot is pouring out of your nose. It felt glorious.

When I went to my bedroom to get some more tissue, I saw Ava lying on my bed, watching me. Overwhelmed with another wave of emotion, I went to her, wrapped my arms around her, buried my face in her fur, and cried some more. We stayed like this for approximately ten seconds before she wiggled out of my embrace, walked to the far side of the bed, and laid back down.

What a little bitch.

She’d done this before, after I watched one of those ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLachlan. I have come to theorize that outward displays of extreme emotion make her uncomfortable, like a guy whose girlfriend cries openly in front of him for the first time, and all he can do is hug her awkwardly while calculating the precise moment he can release her without looking like an asshole.

Thanks, hound. I’ll remember this the next time you want to sleep in the bed when it’s thundering outside.

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[miles for moffitt 5k]

I just want to start off this post by saying I’m not ready for Cory and Topanga to be parents.

I also feel it’s a stretch they have a thirteen year-old. At what age did they have her? They can’t be much older than I.

(source)

Anyway, this post is about a 5K I ran back in May. Better late than never, I say.

(source)

My company offered to waive the registration fee for the Miles for Moffitt race for the first 150 people to sign up, in an effort to break last year’s turnout. It worked, and around 200 people signed up, so the company just said the hell with it and let everybody run/walk for free.

(source)

Since I had a goal of doing a 5K each month (which I dropped the ball on in June), I signed up. I arrived at the Sun Dome the morning of the race feeling good, T.O. with me for support.



Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed



Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed

Let me tell you about late spring/summer in Florida. It gets hot. And not just hot, but humid. Wet. You feel like you’re being wrapped up in a wet blanket every time you go outside. Or like you share a living space with an athlete’s sweaty genitalia. Gross. But true (probably). It’s fucking miserable, is my point. The morning of the race felt like the first really humid day of the season,  but since it was early and scheduled to end when things were really starting to heat up, I didn’t worry. It was still somewhat cool, and the sun wasn’t beating down. At least, it wasn’t beating down until it was time for the race to start. Then it came out in full force.

Gee, thanks.

(source)

The course was a loop starting at the Sun Dome, passing by Moffitt Cancer Center and student housing, and finishing back at the Sun Dome. For the first mile and a half, I felt great. My legs felt strong, and I was crushing it. Then came the hilly portion by student housing and the goddamn sun beating relentlessly down on me. I tried to not pay attention to it, but since there were no trees lining that part of the course, it slowly wore me down. I had to walk for a few short moments, then resume running. Then I slowed down to just walking when I began to feel slightly nauseous. At this point, I was close to the finish line. I could see it. I could hear the cheers of encouragement. My stomach felt settled enough. I decided to run the rest of the way and cross like a champion.

And for the first few minutes, I felt like a champion. It was some Chariots of Fire-type shit. And then the nausea resurfaced. I tried so hard to ignore it. I was going to run across the finish line like a winner.

But my stomach had other plans. The longer I ran, the harder the breakfast contents within knocked against it, trying to say hi to the world.

(source)

And come it did–right as I crossed the line. Right as I crossed the fucking finish line. I tried to be classy and act like I didn’t have a mouthful of my own vomit. But then I started to choke. And then I couldn’t breathe. And then I was a heaving, gagging mess just trying to find the nearest aid with water. By the time I hooked back up with T.O. the worst was over, and all I had to show for my run was a broken ego, a lingering cloud of shame, and a splotch of dried throw-up on my pants.



Vomit on pants not pictured



Vomit on pants not pictured

The best part is that this was all caught on camera, by way of my finish line pictures. It’s not obvious, but if you know what’s going on (and now you do!) you can see it. See for yourself. Go to the BB Action Photography website and type in bib# 5141. You’re welcome.

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