This is my failed attempt at rendering the thoughts of a teenage New Mexican running a marathon. This also represents my general state of mind while driving through New Mexico.
A Slice of Death
I am half way to the finish line, and I imagine I am a spherical molecule of deoderant propelled through the nozzle of an aeresol can. I'm running in the 2nd annual Pulson Heights marathon on a dry July day. Since my first marathon last year, I've developed many strategies to trick myself into believing that I am just along for the ride. In most of my favorite shams, I envision myself as a symmetrical blob, weighing less than my forward flowing surroundings. I pretend I am a piece of pollen floating in the breeze or an air bubble cruising downstream in the middle of a river. Actually, though, I am a loggish turd. You know how the saying goes: "You can't polish a turd." Well, I don't mean that literally you see. It's just that Dougy McNaire's shoes are kicking up dust a little ways ahead of me, and my mouth funnels the dust right down my throat. To top it off, the stupid sun has just enough time to saute the suspended dust. I've always seen Dougy as a sort of a nincompoop. Dougy ran against me for class president and won. Dougy stole my position as catcher for the highschool team. He even won first prize at the chili cookoff that my pa was the boss of organizing. And Sarah Dooly, the girl I've never stopped thinking about since the grade of kindergarten, Dougy asked her to the big dance just last month. I don't truly care if he knew I liked her or not. I still reckon that such a tactic is a direct challenge to my foothold in this town. -JAY