Status quo
Another week, another few incremental slips toward the bottom of the pit of nihilism, which is of course as deep as one chooses to envision it. But first, the crap you didn't come here to see.
My lady-friend in England sent me the canicross kit -- a vest for the dog, a belt for the human, and bungee-style connecting line between -- from Dogfit UK as a combined birthday-Christmas gift. So far, Rosie and I have used it sparingly for the simple reason that it's not ideally suited for winter running. If the two of us happened to be traversing an icy surface at the same instant Rosie noticed a squirrel, there is an excellent chance that she would veer after her new quarry without warning and I would wind up the victim of an otherwise preventable accident. While at many levels I wouldn't care if the accident were sufficiently severe -- e.g., if I managed to land on my head with tremendous force and turn out these feeble. flickering lights for good -- I don't want Rosie to be stranded there in the aftermath, wherever it might be. My only goal at this point is to outlive my dog, even if only by fractions of a minute, and to provide for her to the utmost of my considerable capabilities in the meantime. And when I run with just the usual leash-and-Gentle Leader equipment, I'm somewhat less likely to wipe out thanks to Rosie's behavior, even if I will invariably take a number of diggers every winter (so far I think I'm up to three in the winter of 2018-2019, only one of them serious enough to cause soreness lasting a few days). One of these days, I expect to work up the courage to toss myself in front of a speeding vehicle, most likely a milk tanker, one one of the nearby arteries.
Thus far, Rosie and I have embarked on a total of four or five canicross runs. Although I am three times her weight, with 90 pounds separating us*, I can appreciate how the dynamics of the run change when she is allowed to "contribute." She is certainly strong enough to help pull me along, but not quite sturdy enough to take me off my feet under normal circumstances should she make an instinctive diversion to chase something. And truth be told, she's actually gotten a lot better about that.
Returning to usual themes, it appears that the more distasteful I become of my own life and our ridiculous species overall, the more I'm inclined to analyze my own philosophical dithering and any shifts that occur in my outlook. This is because I wonder exactly what separates me from the kind of misanthropes who kick their disgust for all things human a few levels higher and decide to commit wanton murders or otherwise engage in energetic, blunt-force crime sprees. The news now features an endless parade of goobers who insist on taking others with them into oblivion when they decide to check out thanks to unmanageable personal dissatisfaction and rage; while I experience all sorts of frustration daily, much of it fueled by how much I abhor the average person's mind and intentions, I would never take out my distaste for life on strangers. The majority of people who unnecessarily inconvenience or even harm other members of society are more often guided primary by stupidity or other forms of mental incompetence, not malice, though I most again point out that these can exist in tandem and that stupidity, despite not being something people perpetrate intentionally, is often best punished as if it were intentional, i.e., employing the infliction of significant physical damage and pain. And since you were wondering, I probably wouldn't use a gun to do the job on myself simply because blowing a hole in one's head is a drama-queen's way of committing suicide. No, my plan to liberate myself from my flesh-and-bone prison, should I ever fully map out the important details and bring it to fruition, would make it difficult for anyone to find my sad, stinking remains at all, although I would leave no doubt as to what had transpired generally. I would take a great deal of illicit and ill-advised drugs.
Having a dog carries a slight drawback in that it reminds me how awful we humans are as a species. You should notice that virtually none of the people who talk about what a marvelous and triumphant creation we are contribute anything but noise and bullshit to the whole mess: Capering fundagelical clowns and a smattering of others who by all rights should have been flung at frightening speed against the delivery-room wall the moment they were fully clear of their mothers' birth canals. You will never see me attempting to have my personal beliefs codified into law just to punish those I don't like for some reason, with or without the presumed vote of an imaginary fucklord, as creationists and the anti-gay lobby do. You will also never see me make declarative statements about what should be done to people I don't like who are otherwise keeping to themselves, such as porn aficonados and those with a hankering for buttsex -- straight, gay or in between. I have no animus toward religious types in general, even if their ideas are wrong and help fuel and sustain a lot of backward social policies; it's a big jump for me between believing that someone is utterly full of shit and feeling like something should automatically done to rectify this. So, while I would enjoy knowing that pro-religion loons were being rounded up by the trailer park and tossed into enormous vats of acid, I would never align myself with such a cause because even were I not too lazy to participate in such an enterprise, I just don't really care. I'm not interested in "solutions" other than the one I operate under: If you're not happy with yourself and the world, then do your best to avoid it because a big part if the problem is clearly you.
One big reason committing to running with Rosie every day has kept my own streak of days alive (we're at 111 now) is that I haven't waited until dark on any of those days to get out there, which in my pre-dog days was the norm even in the winter. I've done some evening runs lately, but each of these was a second run for that day. I could run with Rosie at night given that most of us have adequate equipment, but again, with all the ice out there at this time of year, this would be perilous even if no one else were out there. And that's the attraction of waiting in a nutshell: It's nice to have the paths to myself for practical reasons, but the fewer people who see me heaving my sad, uncoordinated, inelegant carcass along the road, the better for all concerned. If I were in a passing car and saw someone who looked exactly like me running exactly like me, I would be compelled by the duty of my conscience to extend a heavy metallic implement -- a crowbar, a mattock, a stolen street sign still attached to its post -- out the window and smash his head with it if there were a reasonable change I could do so without incurring negative consequences. Sometimes, the only way you can offer people a semblance of dignity is to terminate them, and I keep hoping some motorist will realize this on one of my runs and employ a firearm or flamethrower to make me vanish posthaste.
Finally, I regret all of the scorn I've sometimes heaped on people who smoke in public. I should have been dedicated at least half to two-thirds of that opprobrium toward skateboarders instead. In defense of those who wander sidewalks and parks sucking on butts, the worst that happens in an encounter with a smoker when you're running is that you smell some shitty air for a few moments, not much worse than if someone had farted authoritatively. Skateboarders, on the other hand, are an unqualified menace. They never signal their intentions, they obey few traffic and pedestrian laws, and they are absolutely certain to make use of any available sidewalks even when the streets alongside are empty and the sidewalks are filthy with walkers and joggers. For this and other reasons, I have started taking some of these fuckers out in a manner similar to that described above. I run with brass knuckles (yes, they still make them) and pack a surprisingly powerful punch for a lighter gentleman, probably because I work many of the same muscles while incessantly masturbating the evenings away. So it was not precisely a shock when I literally blew apart some skate-rat's head on the other side of the highway one morning last week. I was running toward him at about 8 MPH with Rosie, and he was coming in the other direction at about the same speed, all sulk and tattoos and long greasy hair. He could have moved but didn't, and as we drew within about 10 feet of each other I could smell cigarettes on him too. That did it. I just wound up and threw a right haymaker, which the kid never saw coming. (I'm guessing he was 11 at most and small for his age.) That punch was a thing of beauty even if no one can corroborate this, as one of the two other witnesses is no longer with us and the other will never be able talk. It was as much luck as fury, but the blow cleaved half the kid-s head of in an orgasmic spurt of blood, goop, and possibly faeces. At the time I felt nothing, although my should was sore the next day thanks to the mechanics of the strike and where most of the force it generated wound up being reflected. I saw heard a sound like a large egg landing on a linoleum floor and saw the goop spray out in a neat 120-degree fan, like the blast of a Claymore mine. But fuck it. That kid should have known better and if he didn't, his idiot parents aren't going to miss him anyway.
* Can you calculate our respective weights given this information?