This morning I went running early, in an attempt to beat the worst of the daytime heat. Unfortunately, no amount of early rising could avoid the humidity. In the course of my run, I nodded hello to several early-morning walkers. Then, about a block away and walking towards me, carrying a flat of water bottles, a man shouted, "WHAT MENTAL INSTITUTION ARE YOU FROM?"
I smiled at the jest but was too distant and winded to reply. So I simply kept running towards him. He, mistakenly thinking that I'd not heard him, or perhaps enjoying his jest enough to repeat it, shouted again "WHAT MENTAL INSTITUTION DID YOU ESCAPE FROM?"
"One quite nearby!" I replied as I ran past him. Because, after all, this was rather unpleasant weather to run in, and I am familiar with the concept that running is a masochistic pastime. So, ha ha, nice joke, buddy.
"SO THE ONE DOWN ON QUEEN STREET THEN!" he turned and shouted at my retreating back. I guess my insanity extended so far as misreporting my own institution.
This post's theme word is funambulatory, "like a tightrope walker." My funambulatory sanity tipped and fell into madness as I ran.
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