Hiccups.

Have you ever heard the urban legend about the man who had hiccups for over 60 years until he died? Yeah, that wasn't a joke. It happened to a man named Charles Osbourne, who hiccuped nonstop from 1922 until 1990. Could you imagine that?

Personally, I would rather have one of those sneezing fits than a bout of hiccups. I'm talking about one of those horrifying, "did somebody electrocute you" bouts of sneezing. The kind that make you throw out your back. I hate hiccups.

I say all of this, because I had hiccups a few minutes ago. I don't know about you, but every time this happens to me, I wonder if they will ever stop. Will I be forced to spasm involuntarily every minute of my life until I ascend to the glory of Valhalla, having fought and died in an epic battle between my will to survive and my trachea?

What if I've convinced a girl I'm into to kiss me, and all of a sudden after months of hard work, as I lean in for my glorious reward, I let out an "ARP" or whatever onomatopoeic sound one would type to indicate a mood-killing hiccup? That would be dreadful.

But it's not all bad. I could certainly find work.

Strap me to the front of a submarine and use me as a radar. Other submarines will be able to use the sound of my hiccups to judge their distance from the USS Spasm, using the knowledge that underwater, a hiccup travels roughly 42 knots per second.

I could help blind people, too. On most street corners nowadays, you can hear a soft beeping noise, intended to alert our blind brethren to the stoppage of traffic and the direction they should travel, in order to cross the road. Instead, though, you could use me. Of course, I'd have to wear a soundproof scarf or something when there are cars coming. Otherwise, blind people would be walking into oncoming traffic, and I wouldn't want that.

And, if my hiccups are fast enough, I could be used as a sound effect in dubstep or rap music.

DJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJ OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ARPARPARPARPARPARPARPARP OOOOOOOOOOO WOOOSH SHHHHHHHHHYOOOOOOOOOOOOO ARPARPARPARPARPARPARPARPARPARPARP BASS DROP SHYOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ARP    ARP     ARP     ARP    ARP    ARP      SHOOSHOOSHOOSHOOSHOOSHOOSHOOSHOO

And yeah, as I typed that, I was making all the sound effects in my head and doing a weird dance.  

Getting My Ass Back In Shape. And my legs, lungs, heart, etc.

I used to be in excellent shape. I played hockey and soccer, and I could run (or at least skate) for a long, long time, without feeling like I was on the verge of death.

Then I stopped, put on a bit of weight, and got in horrible shape. Recently, I decided to change that.

Except for yesterday, I've tried running at least two miles a day for the past few days. So far, I haven't been able to run the full two miles without stopping for a bit here and there. Today's run went something like this:

"Alright, you fat fuck. You are running today, and there's nothing you can do about it. Get your ipod, put on your game face, and run."

"But how do I run?"

"Move your right leg, like you're walking. Ok, good. Now your left. Now do it a lot faster than you normally would."

"Hey, I can do this. This is easy."

"Yep. Sure is. Now turn on some loud music and do this until you hit the mile mark. Then turn around."

"Hey, self-loathing part of my brain?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. You're making me a better person."

"Don't thank me yet, you're only at the corner"

"Right. Eyes on the prize."

5 minutes later.

"Hey, asshole?"

"Yes, self-loathing part of my brain?"

"Your legs hate you now, too"

"I know, man. What do I do?"

"Put on a face that makes it look like you're going to die any second now, and keep doing that leg thing I taught you"

"Like this? ARGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!"

"Yep."

"Hey brain? I'm going to die."

But then, somehow, I make it home. Then, I lay down and vow to myself that I'm going to find some other way of exercising, because I'm never doing that shit again.

But then I do it. And it sucks. And it's hard. But I'm doing it.

That's what she said.