Everything Hurts

So I ran a half marathon on Saturday that I wasn't necessarily prepared for. I actually ended up kicking some major ass for the first ten and a half. Around eleven things started to fall apart, but that works out to about 80% of the race being a success. I'm good with that.

So here are my stats: 

Here you can see the clear decline in performance by miles eleven and twelve, and the shit storm that was mile thirteen. Believe it or not, the photo to the right was taken during mile 12 or 13. I was walking as I approached the photographer and asked him to take my picture while I was running. I mean... I ran for ten and a half constant miles. Where were you when I was passing people? Come on, photo man.

Here's a great picture depicting the diva I became after crossing the finish line. "Where's the water?", "Someone bring me pizza.", "Where are my pants?", "Dad, let go of me."

This is a picture of me asking where the M*****F***ing finish line is for the third time. Diva says, "officiators need to be better trained". You can see my dad, the Dicks Sporting Goods mannequin, in the foreground trying to point me in the right direction.

Someone at the race got a great shot of him filming me freaking out about the finish line. That's a good video clip; reminds me of Snooki yelling "where's the beach" on the first season of Jersey Shore. Man, I miss Jursdays.

SO, now I'm a marathoner. Doesn't matter that it's a half. It has the word marathon and they make those awful car magnets with cryptic numbers on them for the length of race I did, so that's something.

I still don't like running, and I can't conclude a blog post for shit.