Chronicles of a 26-Year-Old Married Guy: Vol. 2

Nearly two months into quarantine. Still working from home. Still bored as shit. Still rewatching Netflix shows I've been through two or three times already. My dog has grown rapidly, now around 30 pounds. He still thinks he's a lap dog. RIP to my nuts.


A couple of days ago, after the countless chips, cookies, and pizza rolls I've consumed over the last two months, I decided it'd be a good idea to start working out. I leave the house for a walk, take ten steps down the sidewalk, and completely turn my ankle on a twig. Not even a regular sized stick, a fucking twig. Like, full body weight down on my ankle. Yikes. Next thing I know I'm back on the couch with a bag of frozen corn on my ankle. I go from marathon runner to corn on the ankle within five minutes. Wild. In the past year I've rolled my ankle badly twice and got pelted with a softball in my shin. From the knees down, I'm just all fucked up.

I know I'm not the JV athlete that I used to be, but I figured I'd make it past ten feet before destroying my ankle on basically nothing. You hate to see it.


Talk soon.

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