Walking to do

I like to walk. Walk, walk, walk. My need to walk is not unlike the overwhelming concupiscence men feel when face-to-face with a shapely female posterior, rabid hyena or finely cooked piece of tilapia. You just want to fuck it all. It's part of the process Sir Thomas More called "life" and I wouldn't change a thing. Upon reflection, I would change something, and that thing is the inability to remove the stench of vomit from buckets and other receptacles made of polymers and similar synthetics. I have neither the time, patience nor money to deal with that bullfudge. It's as if the acidic, bilious fluids churning from gut to gape want to embed themselves in my mopping bucket. Why would it do that? What sort of centuries-old antipathy does it have towards my assorted collection of plastic liquid holdy things? What the crap is up with that? And you can't just turn and use the toilet because you have the Norwalk virus and you'd have worse problems if you turned around and I do not need yesterday's digested red chile and honey-glazed turkey with ancho pan gravy all over my new Isaac Mizrahi shower curtain. No fucking sir.

But today I walked all the way down to Howard Circle then back, which is about 4 miles. I'd give the walk two and a half pedometers out of five possible pedometers.