That’s me about three minutes after running fifteen miles in 96% humidity.
Abbigail was in San Diego with “the girls” this weekend, leaving me free reign over the apartment, and the city. Still, fifteen miles, four hours in the studio, three random bars, two movies, two rock shows, one comedy show, and one blog entry later, I still don’t feel like I did shit.
I checked out The Undisputed Heavyweights’ final show of their Joe’s Pub residency Friday night. Incindiary (as in William Miller “incindiary”).
I ran the entire circumferance of Manhattan below 57th Street (with a detour through Union Square) Saturday morning. Tiring (as in took a three hour nap Saturday afternoon “tiring”).
Tonight, I went to 826NYC‘s “Revenge of the Bookeaters” benefit at The Beacon (see below: mostly lackluster, but with some inspiring moments and — of course — worth it for supporting the organization alone).
In between it all, I watched “The Rainmaker,” “Must Love Dogs,” and CBS Sunday Morning. I read The New York Times, Atlantic Monthly, and The New Yorker.
Hell, I did three loads of laundry, ran the dishwasher, and fixed that damned loose screw on the toilet paper holder. I even managed to chip away at a web site redesign.
So, why then — here at the end of it all, here in the wee hours of Sunday night — do I feel like I wasted my time? Why do I feel like I’ve done nothing? Why do I feel like I don’t have anything to show for the last forty-eight hours?
What the f*ck is wrong with me?