Dying was going along just fine until I up and decided to run last night--the first time in three days. It was more like a decongestrun with all the snot-rocketing. I put in a pretty good effort for four miles with too many lightpole intervals to count.
It felt good to get back out there. However, I was disheartened when my running log didn't even recognize me when I entered my digits. Hey, buddy, I'm retired, it groaned. (It actually groaned.)
It seems I may have been a bit hyperbolic about my health status. I don't seem to be headed to the Great Tavern in the Sky after all. You can stop calling dibs on my shit. (Besides, if anyone gets my possessions, it'll be my illegitimate children.)
I still have a thick, disturbing discharge from my nose, but from what I can gather it is not a yeast infection of the sinuses. Nor do I have a yeast infection in my stomach lining or any other place.
I am also happy to say I was wrong (and quite libelous) about beer. We have kissed and made up. Sadly, despite my strict rationing, I have only a pair of Yuengling Porters remaining from the case the erratic epicurean brought me from her voyage into the desolate Pennsylvania outback. Thankfully, I have a mostly unconsumed bottle of Tullamore Dew in reserve.
Mile Tracker 1,000: 112 miles to go.