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Okay, have you ever been so tired, that your arms felt like they were someplace other than on your body?

This 6:00 a.m. shift shit is going to kill me.

Thank goodness I’m off at 4:00 today.

Granted, I’m taking off early to go biking, so it’s going to be refreshing in the sense that I’m doing something fun, but definitely not doing anything toward making my body not feel like it was stuck together with straight pins and bubble-gum.

I wonder how far Critical Mass rides here in KCMO.

I know one thing about myself on a bike…so long as I can just keep going, I am fine…it’s all the stop-start-start-stop-starting that can kick my ass sometimes. Red lights sometimes look like the enemy. I see a green turn yellow, and I’m like, “oooh, you dirty li’l fucker!” I really hate wasting momentum, especially on account of how freakin’ heavy my bike is. I’m hoping the group takes a route without too many stoplights. They claim that the slowest rider sets that pace. I really, sincerely hope that doesn’t turn out to be me.

I’ve been coming home, guzzling water, and going back out cruising quite often lately, adding anywhere from another 5 to 15 miles to my day, which totally doesn’t sound like much, but again, considering what I ride, definitely adds to my daily workout. If/when I get a road bike, I’m liable to leave a wake of flames behind me. I’m thinking in my current state, or in the state I’m likely to be in by the time I can afford a different bike, I should be able to put ridiculous numbers of miles behind me at a pretty rapid rate.

In related news, my ass is even larger than it was last year, and I can’t wear ANY of my old shorts whatsoever. I think it’s a muscle-mass thing, too, as there’s nothing on me outside of my boobs that will jiggle. Goodness only knows how much I weigh, but I sure don’t want to know. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday, and I totally dread the whole being-weighed part of it. It’s liable to be pretty shocking. It’s so very ridiculous that I even care, or that it bothers me to know. I know that only by Vogue Magazine’s standards could I even be considered heavy for a moment, that whatever I am is probably reasonably within the appropriate BMI for a woman my age and height, but for some reason, that stupid number whallops me like the big codfish in the Monty Python fish-slapping dance.

I never did get to the Dr. after the asthma-attack drama, due to bad planning, overbooking, and my idiocy, so I really need to do this thing. I’m just really not looking forward to it in any way whatsoever.

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