The 20 Minute Jog Heard ‘Round The World

On Friday, I had planned to take the day off work. Emily and I were going to head into Boston in the morning to take pictures, and then go to Amanda’s dissertation defense in the afternoon. Right before I went to bed, we talked on the phone about what a positive day it would be, after an overwhelming, crazy week. I was excited to be able to sleep in until 7:00, which shows what an exciting life I lead.

At 6:50, I woke up to my phone ringing. I remember thinking, “Man, what are the odds? Ten minutes before I have to wake up?” before realizing that anytime the phone wakes you up, it’s probably bad news. It was the police chief telling us to stay inside during the manhunt and not to open our doors unless there was an identified police officer there. MANHUNT?

I had several text messages, all from friends asking what was going on. I had no idea. Let’s just say that I don’t have any pending job offers from CNN. I texted one of them back and asked HER what was going on, as I was turning on the news. One suspect was dead and the other was on the run. The governor shut down Boston and all surrounding towns.

“Your city is on the list, and you have to stay inside,” she told me. “And they’re doing door-to-door house searches.”

“What? Should I put pants on?”

“Yes. Put pants on.”

In my defense, let me remind you that I had been asleep. Oh, like you’re so perfect.

As it turned out, they were only doing door-to-door searches in the next town, where they felt confident the suspect was (and, SPOILER ALERT, they were right!). Another spoiler: I put pants on. And then proceeded to watch TV for 13 hours.

Something funny happens when this sort of thing shows up on everyone’s TV screen:


Everyone who didn’t live in one of those places contacted everyone that they know in one of those places. Just like Monday, it was very sweet, but it wasn’t quite as dramatic for those of us not in Watertown. I’ll be honest, initially my reaction was, “IS HE…IS HE BEHIND ME RIGHT NOW?” Hours later, it was pretty clear that we weren’t exactly in the line of fire. And by not exactly I mean NOT REMOTELY. There were roadblocks, a few helicopters, and the occasional siren, but they were in the next town. There was a whole lot of waiting around and TV-watching going on. Of course, being stir crazy was a good problem to have that day, given the possibilities.

Incidentally, the comments on the news about Watertown being a “small, ideal New England hamlet” were pretty funny. Pretty much everyone I know lived in Watertown after college. When I lived there, my neighbor used to park on her lawn and had a sticker on her front door telling people not to bother her. Don’t get me wrong, I loved it there, and I have great memories. But not of a SMALL, IDEAL NEW ENGLAND HAMLET.

Luckily, one of my friends was courteous enough to join me in getting shelter in placed. His work closed early and he came over to stare at the television and decline playing a modified two-player version of Left Right Center with me. (We could’ve played it WHILE watching TV. Sheesh.)

Around 3:00, he went upstairs to take a shower. I was ready for a change of scenery, so I decided to go for a run, a quick 20 minutes after being stuck in the house for eight hours. I was back before he even came back downstairs. No big deal, right?

HOLY CRAP, I’m surprised that it didn’t break into the already breaking news.

“I’m going to go take a shower, too. I just went for a run.”
“Cool. Wait, you what?”

I heard several different versions of this over the course of the day:
“How’s it going?”
“Weird, but fine. Just stuck at home. Went for a quick run. You?”

And my family, forget it. This story will be told until the end of time. There are already jokes. You’d think I ran by the boat, instead of around the block. My mom’s final two cents: “And I don’t think you should even be running AT ALL! You come from a family with bad knees, you know.”

I don’t mean to stand so firmly by my run, but I sort of do. My city was CRICKETS, you guys. And I gave it eight hours. The shelter in place was lifted altogether a few hours later. I refuse to see this as wholly irresponsible of me. But at the same time, I can’t not laugh at “Hey Red, I saw you slow jogging from the aerial shot on the news. Good form!”

I think I’ll just interpret the freak-outs from loved ones as a sign of concern. But at the end of the day, isn’t anyone impressed by my dedication to physical fitness?

For what it’s worth, I spent the rest of the day eating almond M&Ms.


My friends and I watched the marathon from mile 14, conveniently across from a DJ who was playing Thriller, Eye of the Tiger, and other gems that we danced along to with too much enthusiasm, and some of the tired runners gamely danced along to a little bit as they went by. My friend Emily is the ultimate marathon buddy, texting me “We’re here and we have a seat for you!” while I was barely awake. She also chased down a runner who dropped her cell phone, after which I tweeted that she was the hero of the day. As it would happen, she was the first of many.

We yelled the runners’ names, which they tend to scrawl on their chests or arms, and they flashed quick, appreciative smiles, or pumped their fists, or ignored us, those ungrateful athletes, what, are you in the middle of runnin’ a marathon or something? One named Celeste replied with what seemed like an especially heartfelt “Thank you.” It was a beautiful day after a long, long winter.

Patriots Day is a special day in Boston, while also being a completely made-up holiday, because that’s how we do. It did make me laugh a little to hear Obama say, “Today is a holiday in Massachusetts.” We are so busted for our fake holiday, you guys. You caught us. No one was at work. But we swear, every other day, we have jobs, really.

My friend Jess was trying to figure out the best place to watch her fiancee run by. She settled on mile 24 and then taking the T to the finish line. I was keeping an eye out for him. “What’s he wearing?” I texted her. “Blue tank top and blue shorts,” she replied. I remember thinking, “Don’t you hope you never answer the question about what he’s wearing with those words again?” but I’m not sure I sent it. Then later, when we spotted him: “Just saw him. Looks like he’s owning it. Sending him your way!”

My friend Joe was volunteering at mile 13, giving out water and Gatorade and taking videos of his liquid philanthropy. He saw me post that I was at mile 14 and when the runners had mostly gone by, he wrote that he was walking down to us. His sister was running, and he was wondering the best way to get to the finish line. “We’re leaving soon anyway, I’ll drop you at the T,” I told him. I drove him to the train, and told him where to get off: Copley. “Great to see you, talk to you soon!”

An hour later: oh god, what’s happening? What? It’s just local news, right? It’s just some crazy electrical thing, right? My friends: all clear, I think? My family: mostly out of state. My parents, in the sky at that moment, flying home from a winter in Florida. There’s in-flight TV, of course, which means that my mom is already worrying and my dad is trying to calm her down. “She never watches the race from Boston,” I can hear him telling her. “You know she hates the T.” I wasn’t sure what to say, so I texted them, “Nowhere near it. Call me when you land.”

Then: Jess and Joe. “Blue tank top and blue shorts.” “Get off at Copley. Talk to you soon!” Damn. Where are they?

I texted Jess. Nothing. My friend Mike came over. “She’s probably…you know, just figuring everything out,” he told me. “She’s fine.” He was trying to make me feel better. But okay. She’s fine.

I checked Joe’s Facebook page. It was filled with, “Where are you? Please tell us you’re okay.” Then I remembered him needing to use the charger in my car because his phone was almost dead. That’s why he couldn’t update anyone. He was in my passenger seat an hour ago. He’s okay. Right?

My loved ones from out of state started calling and texting to make sure that I wasn’t at the marathon, but the thing is that we all were. That’s kind of how the day goes. But I was nowhere near the finish line.

None of the texts were from Jess. Where is she? “She’s fine, don’t worry, I’m sure she’s fine.” Then I heard from her. And she was fine, but looking for her fiancee. I pictured him running by us. Blue shorts.

Then, later: “Found him.” Joe was okay, too. Deep breath. It’s surreal to end the day worrying about people who didn’t cross your mind as you went about things earlier in the day. They were the only two that I was genuinely concerned about, because of the unique circumstances of that day. It could’ve been anyone else. I think of my best friends. At work in Copley. Working on a dissertation. With her toddler. At work making a TV show. What if I was looking for one of them? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I was lucky. We were all lucky.

And then, such a pouring out of affection, for the city that everyone loves to hate. It means more than I can say. My friends and family from all over contacting me to see if I’m okay (and I am, I am!) is something I’ll truly never forget.

I left work today to drive to class, almost my last one before graduation. I live close to Boston, but I work in the sticks and it takes at least an hour to get into the city. Today there wasn’t any traffic. And once you hit 93, the city opens up in front of you like a postcard. Passing the giant paint can gas tank in Dorchester, there was a double-sided sign flashing “COWARDS” and “PRAY FOR BOSTON.” Signs said over and over again, “Copley Square/Boylston Street closed/Seek alternate routes.” To be honest, I wasn’t prepared for it.

The first responders, the Google doc with thousands of people offering to open their homes, the paper in Chicago showing us lots of love and support, the signs at Yankee Stadium, and damn, the Yankees playing Sweet Caroline? It’s both incredibly touching and also makes it feel like the end of the world. But at the end of the day, the kindness was overwhelming. More overwhelming than anything that happened in Boston yesterday.

And, you know, I said more “I love you”s to the people in my life over the past two days than I can remember. Some to friends I’d maybe never said it to before. So, who wins? I know we’re a competitive town, but I think we do.

Yeah, we’re probably about ready for everyone to get back to hating us. But in the meantime, thank you, thank you, thank you for all the love.

Here are some of the pictures that I’ve taken over the past few years on Patriots Day. For those of you who have never joined us in Boston for that day, I hope they capture the true spirit.










Gilding the Lily

In the fading light I can hear the marching band from the local high school and the muffled announcer.  Football.  It’s fall, and it’s quiet.  The fights – you think it’s so easy, it’s like you’re not even, what about what I – they’re all packed away.  For the first time in months, I shut the window.

He doesn’t drop everything to sit next to me or kneel in front of me and tell me it’s going to be okay.  He stands at the sink.  I don’t ask for his key.

I have a list of fifty or so reasons that I want to end things.  It’s on my phone, of course.  Jesus, we are so digital.  Even life decisions are just another pixel of unlimited data. 

The books on my shelf aren’t helping.  Being strong, being a leader, all of the things that are important to me, none of it speaks to me right now.  I can’t put this on a to-do list, I can’t wipe it up or scrub it off, I can’t put it in time out, I can’t do a Power Point.  I’m out of tricks.

It’s not the saddest story, not even the saddest one on my Twitter feed.  No kids to sit down and explain this to, no wedding pictures to put in drawers.  But it’s my sad story, for now.  It’s my turn to not be myself, to smile at strangers and then get in my car and take a breath.  We’ve all been there, are here.

And then a month has gone by.  While I’m at work, he stops by to get his mail.  He also cleans the floors, takes out the trash, and leaves me flowers and a note.  And plums, my favorite fruit from my favorite farmer’s market.  Local plums are everywhere in the late summer, but I never want to admit that they’re better in the winter, when they’re flown in, though I guess outsourced fruit isn’t exactly helping the local economy.

It’s sweet, but feels terrible.  I don’t know what to do with any of it, so I just go to bed.  When I get home from work the next day, his flowers are gone, and replaced with flowers from my friend, along with a card, new wine glasses, and a journal.  She’s deeply entrenched in education, like I am, but the simplicity of replacing a negative behavior with a positive one hadn’t occurred to me until then.  So much of friendship revolves around “What about Thursday? Or I can do next week, maybe” that you sometimes forget about these moments, these tiny, huge moments, of someone doing exactly what you need them to do, the thing you didn’t even know you needed, someone that you love pushing the rock because you’re just staring at it.

One night over the summer, eating oysters, I told her that I couldn’t believe that I didn’t miss her before I knew her.  She was practically finishing my sentence as I said it.  So, it’s a reminder, it’s a call to action, it’s a click for me.  Sappy love songs on the radio in my car don’t automatically get changed now.  I try to think of her, my other friends, my godkids, my family, my work, my camera, my new flowers.  I try to think of all the love and connections and possibility in my life, and I keep driving.

Learning To Love Yourself, It Is The Greatest Love Of All

I like terrible soft rock from the 80s. I like good music too, but I seriously love the horrific, absurd, contrived, ridiculous, pandering, embarrassing, not even well-written ballads in this particular genre. For awhile it was that age-old question of whether or not my affection was ironic and satirical while enjoying some dark roast with the other hipsters. Now it’s clear that I’m just lame, and I don’t even drink coffee. I own this about myself. If you don’t have any love for crap music yourself, well, I’m just going to put it right out there: I don’t trust you. You’re probably one of those people who said they knew all along that Bruce Willis was dead in The Sixth Sense. NO YOU DIDN’T, NOSTRADAMUS. Shut your filthy mouth.

Are you wondering how bad we’re talking here? Think of a bad song. A really bad one. No, what’s wrong with you? That was in The Karate Kid. If it’s a sentimental favorite from our childhoods, it’s automatically disqualified and can’t really be that bad. Got one? Okay. Well, I’ve got it on my phone. That one, too. I don’t want to leave you caught between the moon and New York City, so let me save you a little time: Got that one, too. If it was playing in the car in the 70s or 80s while your mom or dad dragged you around to stores that sold curtains and lighting fixtures on the weekend, all the while promising you the new Sleepover Friends book at the end of the journey, well, that’s what I’m talking about here.

In finding songs on my iTunes to make this example, I stumbled on All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You by Heart. How great is that song? She picks up a random hitchhiker and has sex with him, which, I know, you’re thinking, sounds about right, what’s the problem so far? Then the next morning she leaves him a note that says, and I quote, “I am the flower, you are the seed, we walked in the garden, we planted a tree. Don’t try to find me, please don’t you dare. Just live in my memory, you’ll always be there.” For serious, lady? What’s wrong with you? Your ridiculous note guarantees that no one would ever try to find you, even if there was a missing persons report and I was the FBI. And remember the twist ending? It turns out she just did it because her husband couldn’t get her pregnant and she wanted a baby. Who needs IVF when there are, apparently, ready and willing random drifters coursing with testosterone about? Hope your husband doesn’t think it’s weird that your kid grows up to be like, “I just wanna live on the road, man. Don’t fence me in. Hey, does anyone want this half a grilled cheese sandwich I found on the median?”

Anyway, one of my favorite 80s soft rock specimens has always been Greatest Love of All by Whitney Houston. Like many women my age, fourth grade was utterly defined by Whitney tapes, and my friends and I spent endless Saturdays choreographing intricate dance routines to How Will I Know and I Wanna Dance With Somebody.

But Greatest Love of All was always different. First of all, she opens with a fact misstated as an opinion. Yeah, children are the future, girl. In fact, that’s exactly what they are. So whether or not you personally believe it, they are going to be running the nursing homes and bingo halls someday, so you’d better…oh. Right.

Rest in peace, Whitney. You were incredibly talented.

Another reason this song is awesome is the fact that it’s apparently the product of two completely different songs that were somehow recorded as one. We start out sweetly proclaiming that children are important and beautiful. Aww, they totally are. And then, without warning, she gets all ramped up and starts yelling about how you can’t take her dignity, no, you absolutely cannot, despite your best effort SHE WILL NOT LET YOU. At this point, you almost feel like you did something wrong and should maybe apologize, because you probably accidentally implied that you were going to take her dignity, and now things are kind of awkward between you. I liken this to having a nice conversation with a friend of a friend of a friend at a party or wedding reception or something, and then suddenly they want you to come to their church and see what they’re all about. Holy shit. Has this happened to you? I never have a clever exit strategy, either. It’s always something like, “Oh, THERE are the olives!” and an inexplicable sprint in the opposite direction.

But back to the song. We go from talking about children to getting pretty upset. And then? THEN?

She sings the song again. She straight up SINGS THE SAME SONG TWICE. Was anyone cooler than Whitney Houston? I don’t know of this sort of lyrical revolution happening before or since. And don’t you love how we all just accepted it? Oh yeah, this is the part where she sings the song again. You know, if I’m at work giving a report on a kid, and I run out of stuff to say and everyone’s still looking at me, do I just start over, verbatim, shushing everyone who tries to say, “Red, you just told us all of this two minutes ago?” No, I don’t. Because I am not even one iota as ballsy as Whitney Houston was.

Also, when I was younger, I used to quote the song to sketchy dudes in bars who asked me how I got into education. When I’d say, “I like to let children’s laughter remind us how we used to be,” and they’d say something like, “That is so true!” and buy me a Bud Light, that was just the best. For more about my 20s, read the archives.

So anyway, to sum up, I like terrible soft rock from the 80s. I like good music too, but I seriously love the horrific, absurd, contrived, ridiculous, pandering, embarrassing, not even well-written ballads in this particular genre. For awhile…

Suckas! Don’t you take my dignity!

Things I Can’t Write On Your Wall

What I want to write:
Happy birthday to the guy who took a great picture of my friend and I at a bar that one time with your camera, so a Facebook friendship was the only way to acquire said picture. Remember how you misheard my name and kept calling me Megan? Which doesn’t rhyme or even have the same first letter as my name? I’m sure you’re nice.

What a decent person would write:
Happy birthday!

What I want to write:
Hey, happy birthday! I think I’ll celebrate by being mean to a waitress, dragging your boyfriend into a ladies room, and yelling at your friends, and then posting all the pictures tomorrow morning like it was a totally normal night. You know, CAUSE THAT’S HOW YOU CELEBRATED MINE.

What a decent person would write:
Happy birthday!

What I want to write:
It was nice meeting you while rocking out to a 90s tribute band, especially when we did that impromptu interpretive dance to She’s Like the Wind, and then you yelled ARE YOU ON FACEBOOK and I handed you my phone so you could add yourself at which point you could’ve totally run out the door with my phone so thanks for not doing that.

What a decent person would write:
It was nice meeting you too!

What I want to write:
Thanks for the friend request. Do I know you? I couldn’t help but notice that your interests include metal, smoking weed alot, and I have a girlfriend. It’s like…it’s like YOU CAN SEE INTO MY SOUL.

What a decent person would write:

What I want to write:
Yes, I meant to delete you. You’re my ex-roommate’s ex-girlfriend, you’re 20 years old, and you update incessantly and giddily about how you’re SO GOING TO MARRY your new boyfriend. How could I have known I’d then randomly run into you at a baseball game? IN SEATTLE. I’m never deleting anyone EVER AGAIN.

What a decent person would write:
I know, funny seeing you in Seattle. Small world!

What I want to write:
Are you fucking serious that you’re having a baby shower for your fifth child? How many bjorns can a girl have?

What a decent person would write:
Are. You. Fucking. SERIOUS.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

Boss got me an iPad. And the angels sang.

I was a little ambivalent at first, after hearing all the hype about Yet Another Thing With Bells And Whistles, the possible redundancy (MacBook is too big, iPhone is too small, and the third porridge was just right?), and the awkward size (do I carry it in my bag? In the rain? Do you do it on a train?). Not to mention the unfortunate Kotex connotations.

But, sure enough, iUnderestimated the magical mind control that is Apple, and once this thing is in your hands you don’t know how you lived without it for so long and then no no I’m listening to you I can listen and type at the same time there’s actually an app for that wait come on man I need it what do you mean 10% battery remaining DEAR GOD I NEED MORE TIME. Heroin, essentially, peddled on a virtual street corner by Steve Jobs, bundled up in a sleek, sexy, smug little package that’s really more like a candy wrapper than a carrying case and have I mentioned that we’re in love and registered at Crate and Barrel?

The iPad also makes you say crazy shit like, “Look at this Shakespeare app! It’s free! And it has all his plays! I can read any of his PLAYS anytime for FREE!” when you vaguely recall using the enormous volume of his plays as a makeshift iron in college, and besides, hasn’t that ramby, tangled Old English secretly kinda pissed you off since high school? Or, “Look at my Supermarket Mania app! You stock the shelves and pick up trash and if you’re slow the customers get MAD!” when in real life sometimes making a quick post-work and pre-taco night stop at Shaw’s seems completely exhausting. How things that sound like an absolute nightmare in real life make for giddily fun games, I’ll never understand. (I’m looking at you, Frontierville players. I’m pretty sure the actual frontier was sorta exhausting. Also, those bonnets.)

So they organized a training for the havers of the iPads in my district, which Boss attended. While our relationship has been mostly good, she’s usually only around for dire situations as opposed to day to day stuff, so we’re sort of conditioned to fear her, or at least associate her with chaos and duress. It’s not even entirely her fault, since the gist of her job is to run around putting out fires. (No, I’m not a firefighter. You’re so literal. But pretty. I’ll excuse it this one time.)

So, seeing Boss triggers a bit of the fight or flight response, but I tried my best to squelch that this particular day. It should’ve been an endless day in a stuffy room because that’s what all trainings held by every company since the beginning of time are required by law to be, but it was actually very interesting, bordering on damn near inspiring, because one of the Apple guys came out to get us all fired up.

Toward the end of the training, the Inspirational Apple Man paired us up to do a quick project. Because the universe prefers me bent over, I was matched up with Boss. As far as I know, this is a woman who communicates in questions that contain two words at the absolute most (“Goals met? Making progress?”) so I wasn’t sure how an actual conversation with, you know, sentences and prepositions would play out.

The directions for the longest 20 minutes of my life were to imagine that we had to assemble an exhibit for a zoo animal, the purpose basically to illustrate that we can use the iPad for many a purpose: pictures, media, text-to-speak, oh my. Boss and I chose a monkey for our zoo animal. Inspirational Apple Man said that wasn’t specific enough, and Boss narrowed it to white monkey. Okay, sure.

We turned toward each other, me with a hesitant smile, her with the unblinking eye of evil, and I suggested that we start by googling our animal and progress from there. I typed in “white monkey,” expecting:

And saw…well. See for yourself. The third hit, specifically.

All right, Urban Dictionary. First? Big fan. I’ve learned so much from you. But…BUT. ARE YOU KIDDING ME. While I appreciate efficiency in all its forms, and while I do typically prefer curiously named sex acts to be explained to me in extensive detail, preferably involving Power Point, in this particular situation I would have been MORE than happy to have had to click on your site to get that helpful nugget of information, rather than have it pop right up on the screen.

But no. There it was. THERE IT GODDAMN WAS.

Of course Boss saw it. When something like that is on your screen, who would bother to read about white monkey tea, apparently a Chinese delicacy?

There was a beat, during which I had a nervous breakdown. She said, “Good Catholic girls don’t talk about things like that.” I wanted to reply that even dirty chicks don’t usually talk about that, but why split hairs.

Instead I said, “Um. Why don’t I try googling white monkey at the zoo?” which had much more churchgoer-friendly results.

And shortly after that I used my iPad to spell check my resume, ultimately proving the point that there really isn’t anything that little piece of technological wizardry can’t do. Aside from help you hold onto your job and dignity, of course.

Don’t Drink The Kool-Aid

I’ve finally found my way to Curb Your Enthusiasm, and people, it’s true love. I heart Larry David so much I want to doodle his name all over my Trapper Keeper. I think I could be entertained listening to him read the Gideon Bible.

No offense, Gideons. But you do just give your gospel away for free in hotel room drawers. Maybe if you made me work for it a bit, you know? I don’t even have to buy you a drink first. You’re kind of like the hooker of religions, if you think about it. You’re totally a forty six year old wearing leather and too much eyeliner waiting in the lobby.

So, yeah. The beauty of Larry David’s character is that he’s well-intentioned but always ends up in awkward situations and then exacerbates the awkward. Not unlike SOMEONE ELSE YOU KNOW. Ahem. Roll tape.

I’m redoing my kitchen. And by “I’m” I mean random collections of sweaty men. Usually I’m not home when the magic happens, but this week I’m on school vacation. Actually, there was an electrician here yesterday swearing up a blue streak when I happened to walk downstairs. I walked out of my bedroom and froze when I heard him ranting; it’s a discombobulating thing to hear a stranger pitching a fit in your front hall. Five seconds after “fuck balls” was coming out of his mouth he was apologizing profusely “for using profanity like that in front of an angel.” Okay then.

So anyway, granite, new cabinets, new appliances. I basically waited until everything in my kitchen was broken or 1,000 years old before taking the plunge. And hey, we all have to do our part to support the economy. The carpenter is the one in charge of everything, and he does awesome work. This week I’ve been bringing him Dunkacinnos and promising not to touch his power tools.

The other day I was eating lunch with him. He held up his energy drink so I could see it and said, “Hey, have you tried these?”

“Mmm, no…I think there’s some Red Bulls in the fridge, though.”

“These are MUCH better than Red Bull. They’re not too sugary. They give you a really natural energy boost. There’s no crash afterwards. They have all these vitamins. They’re really healthy. And they taste really good.”

“Ha, what, do you work for them?” Um, yeah, turns out HE DOES. He sells these random energy drinks on the side. And so began him working references to free radicals and antioxidants into totally unrelated conversations in painfully obvious ways.

I was escaping yesterday when he stopped to show me what he’d put in my fridge. It looks like a bottle of red wine and retails for the totally reasonable $37. If I have that amount of money to spend on an energy supplement, it’s going to be crystal meth, am I right? Can I get a what what?

“Drink about two ounces,” he tells me. I nod as if I understand how much two ounces is. And when I get back home after he’s left, I put a little in a cup. It looks like purple sludge. It tastes like purple sludge. I look through my fridge at what I can add to it (Grey Goose? I’m on vacation, people!) and settle on Sprite Zero.

No dice. The magical acai berry It still tastes like grape-flavored ass. And it’d be easier to avoid the sales pitch if the juice salesman wasn’t camped out in my kitchen as I type this.



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