Sunday was a tease. I walked outside into bright sunshine, gentle breezes, and children's laughter. A neighbor was playing catch with his son. I flinched and pinched. I was indeed awake. This was no dream or bizarre trick of perception. I took advantage of the March miracle sixty six degree weather and drove over to the filthy taco shack on Harlem. I ordered chiles rellenos and horchata and rolled my windows down. I listened to the Cubs game on the radio. The Giants slaughtered them 10-1.

I realize it's trite and obvious to say so, but I can't wait for summertime. My favorite exercise is walking. Preferably when the temperature is ninety plus degrees and the humidity is thick and stifling. Sometimes I pop a few pills, but usually I go clean. The conditions cause me to perspirate gallons. My sock threads mesh into my footskin, eventually causing blistering, bleeding, and peeling. My shirt becomes drenched and shows tree rings of sweat when it dries. I feel my pulse beating in my scalp, a wake on a river of capillaries. It is all glorious to me. The aching feet and and rubbery limbs complement a cold beer very well when I've finished five or ten miles.

This summer I might try jogging. As a smoker I didn't dare. Now that my lungs are closer to regular capacity, I may give it a shot. I'm terrified that my knee cartilege will buckle and snap off my bones. I'll slingshot to the pavement and my legs will flap about like fish tails while I whimper and panic. My lungs will revolt and exhale so hard they turn inside-out and rocket out through my mouth like starved tapeworms that smelled a possum carcass on the roadside. My eyeballs will pop like gnashed grapes. But it might be fun.

I also love the scenery. I see lots of oblivious drivers picking their noses. I hear lots of bad music, identifiable only by a farting bass line as the vehicle speeds past. Certain plants like lilacs and rose bushes have very short blooming cycles and I have the privilege of witnessing these with my eyes and nose. I eat mulberries right off the tree if there's no visible insects or birdshit on them. I watch ant armies carry ice cream wrappers to their holes, where they pore over the surface until the formerly sticky paper is dry as an autumn leaf.

Soon enough I'll return to all that. I used to like winter and hate summer until I began my ritual physical torture program, but now that I rely upon it for masochism and a sense of accomplishment, winter seems awfully patsy. 12:05 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm