R.I.P. LOUISE

It’s time to talk about it. No more Corey vs. Corey debates. No more procrastinating. No more delays, deferring, dillydallying and foot-dragging. This scrimshanker ain’t evading nor shirking no more. The proliferation of my grief has reached a point in which I must either plummet into a valley of despair or rise to the summit of my ambitions. And, dear, readers, I have chosen to plummet. Quitting is so much easier than giving things a second chance. You know that saying: “If you fall off a horse, you should get back in the saddle again.” That’s bullshit. Just ask Christopher Reeve. OK, that was vicious. But I’m hurt and I’m angry. And I never proclaimed that I was a good man. I’m a damnable, odious son of a bitch who is a master of malefaction and whose impenitence knows no end. And, like I’ve said before, I’m also a natural born quitter.

And what do I want to quit? I want to quit this dreadful marathon training. And why do I want to quit? Because, as I noted in my last post, I lost my running partner. Louise is dead. From the account I was told, apparently Louise was drunk as a fiddler, having a jag on, three sheets to the wind, under the sauce, crocked, cocked and blotto—enough, you get my point. Disoriented, confused and clothed only in a discarded garbage bag and a pink pillbox hat, Louise attempted to cross the West Side Highway during rush hour and, I’m sorry to say…this is so hard to recount, excuse me, I need a moment…

Well, that’s when Louise was mauled and killed by a mountain lion that had recently escaped from the Central Park Zoo. The damage and disfigurement was so extensive, identifying the body was difficult. Fortunately, I know that Louise is a hermaphrodite, possesses a vestigial tail and has a superfluous third leg (from a twin that never fully developed). After seeing the corpse’s third leg, useless tail and reproductive organs of both sexes, I told the coroner with a heavy heart (my heart weighs 18 oz., which is 6 oz. more than the average male) that, yes, indeed, this dead body was Louise. I then asked the coroner for a moment alone with my former running partner. When he left the room, I gathered myself together, stole Louise’s wallet and jewelry (unfortunately, I had to clip off one of her fingers to get her diamond ring) and got the hell out of there.

OK. I lied. Louise DIDN’T really die (I told you I was damnable and odious). At least not literally. But figuratively, she’s dead to me. And that’s because she has stopped being my running partner. Yes, it is sadly true. Louise has left me to go on Rumpsringa, that rite of passage for Amish youths. OK. I lied again. Louise DID leave, but not for Rumspringa. She left the Tiger for 7 weeks to work on the TV show TOP CHEF. It’s a 7-days-a-week/long hours commitment, and so she’s unable to run with me anymore. To say that I’m crushed would be an understatement. Upon first hearing the news from Louise, I caused a scene, bawled like a baby and tried to kill myself by swallowing my tongue. But since I was born without a tongue (Did I tell you that I’m a mute?), my suicide attempt was fruitless. Instead, I told Louise she could go to Hell (not that place where Satan lives; HELL is actually a clothing store on Bleecker Street where I figured Louise could pick up some nice threads for her new job) and ran home to make a second attempt at doing myself in by listening to “The Best of Bread” for 58 consecutive hours.

There is much more to tell of my tragedy and this travesty, but I’m writing this post on my laptop as I sit on a bench in Central Park and, oh my God!, there’s a mountain lion coming my way…

TO BE CONTINUED…

RUNNING
3-4 miles

DRINKING
1 Black Forest Chocolate Doppelbock (16 oz)
1 Black Forest Imperial Stout (16 oz)
1 Growler of Black Forest Choc. Doppelbock (64 oz)
½ bottle of Jose Reyes wine

SLEEPING
5.5 Hours