Dear Legs, There is no doubt about it. I abuse the ever loving bejeebus out of you. I force you to run me around all day at my freakishly active job and then I force you to actually run some more. I cuss you out, calling you short, stumpy and slow. I wonder why you are not longer or faster and I then I call you a pair of slacking off jerks... I dress you terribly and do not care for you as I should. I question how it is that you work so hard and to my (clearly unrealistic) brain are still so damn out of shape. Legs, I am sorry for being such a raving asshat to you. I vow to smarten up.
Left ankle, you have been very sore and sad this week. I am sorry about that and will give you a lot of love and attention if you get better on the super speedy. I will placate you with bags of frozen peas, green compression socks, advil, kisses, whatever you want pretty much....
Anyway legs. Thanks for getting me around. Running would be a real challenge without you!
|See what I do to them? At least there are nice compression socks involved...|
My knees look creepy.
|The ice bath of a true Mainer.|
See legs, I DO take care of you. NOT...
|If I were my legs (hang on. what?) I would refuse to work until given far better attire. |
This is just absurd!