April 12, 2013: And that's what we call, my friends, tendonitis.

     Guys, I’m sorry. And that’s a difficult, unfamiliar phrase for me to type. I’m sorry that I have neglected this blog for three and half weeks. I know you probably are pissed at me (especially my new-found Russian fans), and perhaps you have been forced to fill your void of online entertainment and hilarity with shitty, useless Amazon purchases, or with lame-ass blogs written by some white girl named Katie who posts & boasts on a daily basis about her fundraising successes for churches in Bosnia. For your waste of money on Dutch Ovens, and your waste of brain cells on Katie’s mindless dribble, I’m sorry. But I do have a reason. A very good reason. Like a dog with his tail between his legs, I’ve been hiding from my blog of dickheaded running, leaving my last post to bask in all of its praiseworthy, fuck-yeah-bro-you-ran-13.2-miles-no-problem glory. The truth is, a lot of shit has gone down in the past twenty days. So much to the point where I will need to create several blog posts. Please continue reading if you’re interested in learning:

    1.       How I went from the laudatory moment of easily running 13.2 miles to the pathetic struggle of completing only 1.2 miles (at the speed of an elderly woman on her brisk morning walk).

    2.       About my experience with the Boston Marathon Attack, and how it will affect my own marathon training.

    3.       About my awesome vacation in Florida, where I spent an exorbitant amount of money, drove a Mustang convertible and partied like the world was ending.

    On April 1st, I had proudly announced my recent grabbing of life’s balls in the form of a salary raise and a completion of an impromptu gym-regulated half-marathon. Well, it turns out the raise was actually sub-par (for dickhead standards), and even worse: I severely injured my left foot in pushing myself to run this distance.
    Now, I realize you guys aren't interested in learning the harsh truth that I do indeed make more money than you (don’t complain, you’re probably on Facebook all day long). You read my blog because you’re genuinely interested in either my well-being, you possess a passionate love for the sport of running, or you’re really fucking bored and your job blocks websites like Cracked or Buzzfeed. So let's hurry back to my handicapped foot.
    After this wonderful 2h02m half-marathon, I felt pain in my foot, but it was eclipsed by my overwhelming pride.  Honestly, I was under the impression that the pain was “normal”, since running such long distance was a premiere to me. So, in the following days, I applied considerable amounts of Arnicare, gently obliged my girlfriend to massage my foot 3 times a day, and regularly soaked my foot into a premium $9.99+tax (in Taxachusetts, 300%) ice bucket I found at Lowe’s. Speaking of Lowe’s, I still can’t believe they declined my credit card when I was trying to buy $200 worth of gift cards because my “ID was  damaged”. Sorry, but I can purchase an automatic rifle with minimal background checks, but I’m prohibited from buying a T-Mobile gift card? Fucked up country, this U.S. of A.

The picture was taken moments BEFORE I was rejected like a Chechnyan.

    Three days later, I still couldn't climb up my stairs without a "7 out of 10" pain (you know, the 80% subjective, 20% I-don’t-wanna-look-like-a-crying-bitch scale of pain used in the doctor’s office). I WebMD’d the shit out this injury, and even found myself pleading for help from the losers on Yahoo Answers. Between these sources, I learned that the problem with my foot could be as simple as a too-tight shoelace issue, or  as bad as multiple stress fractures. The pain became unbearable. Therefore, I decided to go ahead and use those “sick hours” that have greatly accumulated over the last 4 years, and drive myself to the nearest walk-in clinic. Mind you, I still drive that incredible lil’ beauty of a car, the Mazda 3 hatchback, and it’s a standard (I prefer to actually switch gears and be in control of my vehicle rather than simply press the gas pedal whilst I eat an Egg McMuffin and text about the score of the Sox game). It even hurt to push in the clutch. That’s how bad this was.

SULLY, AH YOU TELLIN' ME THAT PEDROIA HIT A HOMAH?!

    In the emergency room, the doctor pretty much told me that my X-Rays didn't yield anything to be concerned about. He gave me the quintessential, elementary school nurse medical advice: rest it, elevate it, soak it, and then take 600mg of Ibuprofen four times a day. He did say and write "no alcohol" but I think he didn't realize it was FRIDAY. So I got myself a few vodk'advil before going out and it actually felt pretty good.

FUCK ME, I'M INJURED AND WOOZY OFF VODK'ADVILS

During the rest of the weekend, I didn't couldn't exercise at all besides casually walking around this wonderful city of Boston. It's a great place to be in April, witnessing the first emergences of spring.  Notable, geriatric activities included: being one of the very first bike users of Boston's new Hubway system and... eating, eating, eating. I'm talking pints of Fro-Yo, butter croissants, ice-creams cones doused in chocolate, fiery chicken wings, sugary Cokes... I basically gained 45 lbs by the end of the weekend. It was seriously like being on one of those fucked up documentaries featuring fat-asses who consume 25,000 calories a day. Bon appétit, bitchez.

Girlfriend doesn't support my marathon, but certainly supports my unhealthy binge eating.

In the following week, I exercised by miserably riding the stationary bike at the gym, captivated by the cadences of fellow runners on treadmills, bitterly remembering that it had been ME on that very hamster wheel, crushing 13 miles only a week before.

I briefly attempted to run on April 10th, but was horrified to find that I couldn't even make it around the block without agonizing pain.

 In this dark period, I couldn't even bring myself to write a post about it. Until now.

Then came Marathon Monday in Boston.

 April 15, 2013, I went to work, watched the men and women finish, went to lunch, worked a bit, and received this text message.

It was 2:50pm.

To be continued.