The doof is a high strung cat. Trapeze-high. This is not a good thing.
Doof has a big race in three days, and the excuses are lined up -- his allergies pounded him last week. He's still having problems. He's self-aware of his own high-strung nature. He's self-aware that his self-awarenss just makes the allergy symptoms worse, and if he just chilled he'd probably feel a lot better. He's self-aware enough to know that his self-awareness that is making the allergy symptoms feel worse just gets worse when he begins thinking that this is a big race that physically, he's capable of winning. He's self-aware enough to know that the self-awareness of the self-awareness of the self-awareness gives him the foundation for fucking up saturday, and then writing a self-aware blog post. You get the idea.
Ok, sorry, doof knows you're spending your time reading this, and that you could be using your human energy to do something worthwhile with your life, and that perhaps you initally saw reading this blog as a worthwhile thing -- you were thinking, "that doofus, he's funny, and eccentric, and I'll just read his latest blog, that goofy, doofy, doofus."
Sorry, but you're getting shit on at this moment.
Purgation, bro. Doof is just getting it out, in one good push, so he's all smiles on Saturday. Just like the 'ol punk song said: your face, my ass.
Sorry. But is has to happen, and this is better for both of us.
Read that big long paragraph over again -- I said read it, bitch. That's good. Now nod your head. You agree with all of it, don't you? Good. Now read it again. Feel that full, fat, fathomless, fecal flow of weekend athlete neurosis cover your little noggin like Grampa's patting hand....
Of course you are.
Now, doof feels a lot better, himself, and will give a go at riding away from a bunch of fat old guys.
Don't forget to wipe....