An open letter to the butthead out on the trail ...

Dear Butthead on the Trail,

We reached the trail head at the same time, both stopping to stretch our legs and adjust our iPod playlists accordingly.  I have a slight learning disability when it comes to operating anything with a hook or a latch, so it was a labored effort to strap my running band to my arm. This gave you an advantage to start running before me, helping to avoid the awkward, "Why after you, Miss!" conversation as we clumsily tried to shuffle past one another (so, you're welcome for that). However, only seconds into your run (when I had just started to jog behind you), you decided that you hate that particular Eminem song and stopped to change your music. I politely darted around you and continued on my merry way, making an honest effort not to belt the words to the Hairspray tune, "Run and Tell That" out loud and into the faces of passersby. But my attempt to move around you was in vain because you suddenly started running again right as I passed you, and we ended up in a weird jogging tandum where we were practically touching elbows.

Being the semi-polite gentleman I assumed you were, you held back for a second and let me gain some footing. In turn, though I appreciated the gesture, this made me incredibly nervous because I felt like I had to keep running at my "I have to pass in front of you!" pace and I didn't know if I had the stamina to maintain that for my entire run. I did what I could and ran a comfortable pace in front of you, doing my best to ignore your heavy mouth breathing right behind me.

Well, apparently chivalry stops after 880 yards because as soon as we passed the .5 mile marker, you shot in front of me like a bat out of hell. This didn't bother me because, judging by the amount of muscles you crammed into that itty-bitty cut-off tank-top, I figured you were much faster than me. But you know what did bother me?  The fact that as you passed by, you turned towards me, gave me a snotty smirk, and proceeded to kick up your heels as you ran away. You. Sassed. Me.

I'm sorry I don't run fast enough for you. I'm really, really sorry that after running a race on Saturday and then 5 miles on Sunday, I'm a little less than speedy on the following Monday. My thighs were screaming in agony and I could feel my shins splitting in two, but I did my best to chase after you until my knees almost gave out and I had to slow back down to a normal pace. As I watched you disappear into the distance, I grew even angrier. Not because you're faster than me, but because you were a JERK about it.

And another thing, I don't know where you get your fashion advice from, but NO ONE wears bandanas anymore. I wore them in 7th grade and you know why? Because I was a 12 year-old GIRL. And I don't care how much of a bronzed god you think you are, NO ONE wants to see your nipples hanging out your shirt because you thought it was hot to cut the sleeves off your t-shirt so dangerously low that it's almost comical to call it clothing. Nipples are gross, and I'm better off assuming you don't have any.

However, it is very possible that you were dressed that way because you were trying to run back to the Jersey Shore to join your fellow brethren. If that's the case, then I mean no ill will towards you. Run far, my friend. Run far and fast

It's not your fault that I let you ruin my run. You can't help how tan and awesome you are. Shame on me for getting in your way.


The girl in the bright yellow t-shirt who may or may not have given you the middle finger


  1. True. But when you wear them, it doesn't scream, "Hey! I'm a pretenious douche bag!"

  2. But it doesn't change the fact that I AM a pretentious douchebag! Ahaha! I win.

    Anyway that guy sounds like he sucks.


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