So due to predictable employment, I missed Marathon Monday. It was a gorgeous, sunny, dry 90 degrees, exactly why I shed several early afternoon tears for being stuck at work, confined behind the cooling blinds on the magnifying glass-like windows, that teased me when the sun shone in pointed rays on my desk. Poetic and fucking heartbreaking, b.

What I also missed was presumably actual hilarity in the forms of people who haven’t perfected their long distance drinking skills and bow out early in the race due to intoxication and dehydration. Early warning signs include stumbling, stuttering over simple syllables, paste face, excessive sweating, and regurgitating breakfast. The ones that just aren’t built for the wear and tear of hours of thumping your livers with bursts of booze. Maybe next year tho. Get to work tomorrow.

Another gang of participants are the fashion averse – ridiculously dressed for the occasion. Awful lotta flash/fuckery, odds are some sequined shit that only helps to draw negative attention and possibly a bit of ire from other runners in the pack. These aren’t the most seasoned folks, but it’s not for lack of trying. Some of em were partying their Sundays away, as opposed to spending it prepping for today’s event. Some might have gained from it, but with today’s high heats, dehydration is always a easy and common injury.

Then there are the seasoned veterans – the Kenyans of the drinking game, if you will. They start out strong, bursting off the start with some shots to coat their soon-to-be punished livers. Simply put, if you start strong, you can afford to pace yourself down the line. Now, it’s never a matter of finishing the marathon for these recognizable experts – the goal’s always in sight, no matter the distance. Beers flow like water, done carefully. Subtle sips as opposed to the lofty and aggressive pounders. Poetry in motion for the boozehounds, who seem to just float along the course with the minimalist approach, knowing full well the pack behind them is eventually gonna be a stumbling, shitfaced pool of castaways in the dust. Fuck em. Oh, and if I see one of you with a golden tan because of the day, it’s gonna be an issue too. I’m heated.