The Implications of Not Walking Faster
Excuse me. Can you please walk faster?
Don’t you have some place to be?
At least move to the right. Let me pass.
No, I’m not in a rush, I just have things to get to today.
I don’t mean to be rude. But you’re taking so long and holding up the flow of traffic.
It’s not just me. Look at that lady in the surgical boot. She probably has an appointment with her orthopedic surgeon. You’re keeping her from receiving healthcare. Are you Mitch McConnell? Who’s rude now?
![I Believe… [Go to the Gym Anyway…]](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/579fa3912994ca0eff850271/1537880974914-54ZH7AK5W3AXJPOQ95NI/ibelieve....jpg)
I Believe… [Go to the Gym Anyway…]
…that the days you really don’t want to go to the gym — making excuses, promising yourself that you’ll fast that day if only you can skip — but do are the days that matter most.
On Becoming That Guy at the Party: The Dilemma of Poor Johnny One Note
Imagine you’re at a dinner party. (And for those less inclined to go to anything as bougie as a dinner party, imagine a house party or a party that includes people drinking and eating and talking—you know, a fucking party…)
Andy disassembled his weapon with lighting speed. He packed it away in the black backpack made specifically for a weapon of this sort. He bolted to the roof access door as fast as his little, chubby legs would carry him. He made his way through the condo/office building stairwell without being noticed just as he had done on his way up. Andy was good at his job. And for a nine-month-old baby, he was really good at it.