Tragically Fine

 We drove for what seemed like 47 minutes, when in reality it was only 46. But time always does run a bit slower when you are about to initiate your own half voluntary, half involuntary execution. This all began two and a half months ago. There was a conversation that seems vaguely familiar, like the "what was that girls name that I made out with last night? Wait, did I even make out with anyone?" kind of vague. The conversation went something like this:

         My dad burrowed into the room to apparently figure out how Facebook works, at least, that's the front he used. 

         "So...I just smash one of the clicker things on the rodent? Then I just go into my profile and this light blue, or maybe it's a bit darker than light blue.....what's the color in between light blue and dark blue?"

         "Blue?"

         "Yeah," he continued "the blue button here that says 'edit,' right?

         I began to open my mouth, but couldn't let out an audible sound before my Dad began again, "so in two and a half months....do you want to die?" 

            "What? You kinda mumbled off there at the end."

         "I said, *cough* *sneeze* *stomach grumble* in two and a half months do you want to die? *cough* *cough* * exfoliate* *cough*

         "I'm not thoroughly convinced that you're not trying to sign me up for another half marathon. I remember last time you roped me in, you used the exact same tactics. The answer is No!"

         My dad blinked a couple of times, shocked at rejection, even though rejection didn't do anything. It was me he should have been shocked at. "Okay..." he continued, "well do you want twenty bucks?"

         This had to be a trick question, but just in case it was real and I could instantly inherit twenty bucks, I had to respond.  

         As I was summoning up the breath to blurt out the word Yes, my dad rapid fired the phrase, "doyouwantmetosignyouupforthehalfmarathoninaugust?" 

         By that time it was far too late. The "yes" was past the point of no return. 

         "Yes," I said. 

         "Okay, your wish is my command, you better start training."

         "I'll get you next time, father. Next time!"

          Any other possible petitions against this race were obliterated once the fifty dollar racing fee was paid. 

        The morning was stiff, the trees glared at me for being up so early, and my eyeballs tried several times to leave my head and run home where they felt more comfortable. The birds sang melodic tunes of various songs, such as:

 All Nightmare Long- Metallica;

 Black Curtains-Megadeth; 

 Endless Sleep-Jody Reynolds

          We arrived at the park in just enough time to be really early. We waited for the buses for what impatient people would call an hour and what patient people would also call an hour, since it did, in fact, take an hour.  The buses pulled up, like buses do. The organizers of this event assumed that anyone running such a grueling race would be skinny and fit, and so they put seven people per seat. It just so happened that they forgot to take into account Edith, who came in at a startling 643 lbs. Showing that did they not care that she was the size of six people, they put five more people in the same seat with me. Good news was that they were all fit. Bad news was they were fit, 300 lb Scottish body builders. The bus vomited us up the mountain, wishing it had never been assembled in the first place and silently questioning it's purpose in life as a rent-a-bus. 

          When we arrived at the starting line we met John. He was the regulation keeper of the race. He had made it his personal destiny to annoy every living creature before the race began. We loved John about as much as faces love rubbing up against asphalt. 

          Then began the race. If you could call it a race. It was more of a "fastest person to the finish gets to go home sooner," kind of competition. 

           Later, rather than sooner, mile one passed. Then mile two. Then before I knew it a man wearing an incredulous top hat was heard shouting, "Mile twelve!" What sweet, beautiful relief it was to hear such a number, mile twelve!
          "Yay for mile twelve," I shouted. 

          "Oh crap!" shouted the man, "I'm sorry, I accidentally read the number twelve instead of the number three. Sorry everyone, Mile Three!" Two men and three women collapsed at the mere error of saying twelve instead of three. I kept going. Mile four, then five, tripping over bodies as I ran. The density of dead people grew less and less as the race continued on. Mile eight and nine passed like my algebra tests, barely. 

          "My legs, my adorable legs!" My shouting seemed to give me some odd sort of boost. The end had to be near. I turned a hard left, followed by another, and another, and another. "You've got to be kidding me! I just ran in a freaking circle! Good one race organizers!" They took my comment literally and are now planning on implementing twelve more next year. If I hadn't had wasted my breath on sarcasm, I would have definitely sworn an oath to never run again. But, since no air was left in my lungs to make such a protest, I am now signed up for a half marathon in January, in Alaska, barefoot, naked. I reached the real mile twelve and the same guy with the top hat was standing there, "Mile Thirteen! Sprint! Sprint!" One guy next to me pulled out his phone, "T Mobile, actually." The guy to my right was so sick of Mr. top hat that he pulled out a 12 gauge

 shotgun and blew off Top Hat's arm. "Shut up!" He yelled stylishly and continued to run just slightly faster than me, which was really annoying. My legs were ten feet behind my torso, my arms were dragging on the ground, my eyes were leaking out of my nostrils, and my forehead sagged far below average. I was a mess. I remembered a wise running man once told me, once it gets to the point in which you don't think you can run any farther, count down from fifty. I tried. Nothing. I then decided to try counting colors, that seemed to work up until I got to the greens and couldn't keep counting. The thirteen mile marker danced on the horizon. "If I can just make it there," I thought. "I wonder if my entire body has to make it passed the finish line, or if my torso only will count?" I didn't have any energy to dwell on that thought. I kept running. 13 passed, blazing before my eyes. Only .1 miles left to go. Great idea: I'll run it! Bad idea: I ran it! I expected to see the finish line just around the corner. I passed the corner, and saw another corner. "It has to be behind that corner," I thought. There was another >^.^< (kitty LOL) corner! Just around this corner, there can only be one last corner, that's logical, right? Phew! No corner, but the finish line was on the other side of the field. I collapsed and died right in front of the finish line. Grass has since grown over my limbs, and my skull is a great hangout for insects. At least for me, the half marathon was over.

                                Ominously,

                                                Kyle