This is just the beginning and I haven't gone over it yet. It's about my zombie run this weekend.
Georgia clay squishes between my toes just like plato used to when I squeezed it between my fingers as a girl. This run became more like how muddy and wet can you get before the zombies take off all the "health" flags from the belt around your waist rather than an actual 5k. I hear a scream coming from just over the hill. Marcus, the skinny bald guy wearing orange sunglasses. Every time he screams, the zombies jump back enough that he usually escapes with his flags. Two flags still flap behind him. One mile back a doctor zombie didn't fall for the scream. I lost all three of my flags by the halfway point.
We joke that underneath our feet lays shoe printed shit. My foot burrows into the clay and my whole right side turns Nacho Cheese Dorito color. Gary asks if i'm ok. I don't turn my head. I just give a thumbs up over my right shoulder.
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