Right amount of random

Well, I think I’ve sufficiently recovered from the centipede incident. I may never feel completely safe without shoes again, but somehow I’ll go on.

A friend and fellow blogger and I were recently discussing the idea of blogging. A friend of his who is also a blogger (I’ve realized I hate that word…it’s like a mix of blood and booger) had recently said something to the effect of how she couldn’t understand how he wrote a random blog. As in, it has no theme, like cooking or weddings or pop culture or what have you.

Now, as you’ve probably noticed, my blog also has no theme. But the friend wasn’t saying this was a bad thing, just that it seemed harder to maintain.

Honestly, I think it makes my life easier. I spend a good deal of time just trying to think up post topics. If I had to weed out all the random things that happen to me or I do, I would probably update once a month. But as I always say, I think it’s better to just be consistent with the writing, rather than only post when I have something truly brilliant to say.

Speaking of random and truly brilliant, I’ve started making my own iced coffee. There’s not really a story there, it’s just really awesome. I make the coffee the night before, leave it in a pitcher in the fridge til morning, then pour myself a big water bottle full in the morning. Glorious and cost effective. Especially since it’s finally getting warm out.

Speaking of random and glorious, last night I went to the gym for my training session, and after just while I was running ma miles, I decided to up my speed to 6.8 miles per hour for the last half mile or so. This is pretty fast for me to run for five minutes steadily, but I’m aware it’s not shattering the sound barrier or anything. Even so, what happened next made the extra exertion worthwhile.

There’s this old Italian man who goes to my gym who will run on the treadmill for literally hours. I noticed him on this trip because at one point he was just standing behind my machine staring at the console. I gave him a weird look, and he moved to another treadmill to start his run.

When I finished mine, I had to pass him to get the disinfectant wipes we’re supposed to clean our machines with. As I did, he yells to me in a thick accent, “You are very strong!”

“Oh…ha…thanks,” I managed. (I was still a bit winded.)

“It’s good!” he insisted.

So there you have it. An old Italian man thinks I’m strong. Like bull.

Now ya see? If I didn’t randomly blog, this post wouldn’t exist and you’d have no idea how smart and strong I am. God bless America.

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