What a horrible performance. I started off by not running much, put in a decent week, then quit in a raging meltdown, Went sledding, then got on some crazy pills that made me see bugs, have spates of an hour of two of complete memory loss, gross confusion,  incoherent and impulsive behavior.

“I need a passport.” For what reason? To visit the fishing camp in Novia Scotia I inherited? Not likely, but one would like to at least be able to, to have that choice, to open up the possibility of more trout. And to my eldest nephew, I bequeath my trout camp on Siglar Point. “I need to drive to a hat shop an hour away. I need to throw out my karate clothes. I need to throw out all seaweed paper.” Okay, good eye, nice job. “I need to research the epigrammic history of celery, especially homonyms of Taiwan and Chechnia.” Oh god, why?

I need to run.

I blundered into February above ground. Nothing better than another Sunday above clay. Well, comparatively speaking, if you were enjoying a nice afternoon without you bleeding from your eyes, for example, you could still have a reasonable range of emotional responses. If you never bled from your eyes, then the emotional impact would be fairly boring. I have not lost horns, therefore, I have horns. If you always bled from your eyes your entire life and then one day you didn’t bleed from your eyes, the occasion would be profoundly satisfying. I have lost bleeding from the eyes, therefore I have no bleeding from the eyes. So, I ended the month having never bled from my eyes, but thankful, nonetheless, that I did not start this month. I am thankful for my healthy eyes, and for the fish camp I’ll probably never visit. “I can catch fish [gesturing vaguely to area by river] over there.” Shakes head. “Something old, something new, something Scottish, something finned.”

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EDIT: 

So, I ended the month having never bled from my eyes, but thankful, nonetheless, that I did not start eyeball bleeding this month. I am thankful for my healthy eyes, and for the fish camp I’ll probably never visit. “I can catch fish [gesturing vaguely to area by river] over there.” Shakes head.

“Something old, something new, something Scottish, something finned.” I dreamed I didn’t make any sense when I originally wrote this. My instincts are red hot.

I dreamed I didn’t make any sense when I originally wrote this. My instincts are red hot. But at least I slept all night, dreaming I’d lost my mind, dreaming that I’d assuredly lost it and here are some examples to support my theory. 

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Because the only time I can run is evenings late, and there’s a lot of ice everywhere and I hate slipping around on black ice on late night headlamp runs. In a run-down blighted rust belt ghost town, I sort of lost interest in running these same hillbilly roads. And the medicine made me hallucinate and stay up all night and see bugs and I’d forget huge chunks of time in the day. All of a sudden, driving down a road, I’d forget where I was entirely, have no idea where I was heading. When I spoke I said wrong things, my dexterity dried up and blew away. I broke things, knocked things over, and I could see my hands doing things wrong but I wasn’t entirely connected to the action. I’d have these crazy sweats. I burned toast… It was at that moment, looking at the toaster, that I decided to toss the medication. I was tolerant of the stuff for a while, but when it robbed me of the ability to make toast, I decided to avoid bloodshed and flush the pills. Would you choose insanity or burnt toast?

I lost eight pounds, I gained eight pounds. When the moon is full, so are my pants.

Come June, I’ll be living in a different town, remaking my life, pursuing la vida sequel, interested in my cage again.

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An expanse of thorn-choked winter fantasy fun balls.

And so, another Janathon draws to a close. I did not beat my previous personal best of 356 miles. No panoply of seasoned running anecdotes to share, this time around, have I to share with my friends and running relations.

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(IRAS 18059-3211)