Not sure if you remember…
But a few years ago…I had a run in with a gentleman at the gym.
This gentleman, we’ll call him “TrackStar”, felt the need to press ALL.KINDS of unnecessary buttons on my treadmill in an effort to make himself appear the expert….or maybe… in an effort to achieve what he finally did:
me. on my ass. on the floor. clutching my ankle.
well…today…in the quest of getting back to my two-a-days..
I swear I purposely chose a treadmill fa’ fa’ far ….off into the distance.
Apparently it wasn’t far enough.
The absolute.minute he stepped in front of my treadmill, I swear I started having flashbacks. I started grasping for the front handlebar in an attempt to cover the buttons with my sweatshirt, but…in my quest to shield my gatdamn buttons…
*insert curse words here*
Jesus…be an ankle brace.
Dear TrackStar, I don’t like you. x0x0, Boon