Now, I live roundabouts 22nd Street. By the time I got to 16th I was gasping for air and couldn't inhale deeply at all. I was in trouble. My nose was hurting, I felt disgusting, and I wanted so badly to stop.
|I also had toilet paper in my shirt because we have no more tissues.|
We were running towards the art museum and I was being cranky and whining about how it wasn't fair that Paul felt like going faster than me. So I'd ask to slow down. And then speed up all defiantly. I was a mess.
My legs, however, were totally good. They were like, "Okay, you do your complaining thing up there and we'll just be down here running, okay?" My legs felt great! And I didn't stop once. Even though I might have had to. I refused. I just kept turning random places so as to distract myself from everything.
I sounded like a twenty-year smoker by the end of it. So I can promise you, if it felt that way, I will never ever smoke a cigarette in my whole entire life. I know I'm one of those lame people. But it was so painful and such a struggle, I could just never do that to myself.
|Sorry, I am not falling for the cool factor.|
WOAH I'M PREACHING! I will not do that. I'm done, I promise.
So. Sickness. My chest being tight when I was running. Should I have stopped? When don't you run? Maybe I'm just tough. Yeah, that's it.