Trying to Be Cool

It's night time in Denver. January 14th. 2 o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, last-call and booty-call hours.

Was staying over a friends near Capitol Hill. Couldn't sleep after a drunken bender all day. My left calf starts to itch and imaginary 808s sound-off in my head. My double-jointed-semi-ashy-large-distal phalanges start to rub gently over one-another. I vault out of bed and snatch up my cheap Newtons, my cheap reflective pack, and my cheap wireless Insignias as I crouch out of the door. The frigid breeze pimp-slaps me right cheek, a nonverbal cue to get back inside. "Gotdamn" I respond and rev up my hamstrings, open up my hips just enough to get one more customer in. My phone lights up to show me Strava and Spotify to help me stay alive on the run. Then I start.

Running in the city, especially at night is like tap dancing to me. A solo jig that I can make up my own melody and rhythm too. My feet are slapping the side of the sidewalk at its own pace and my legs are extending-extending to whatever I need to hit my stride. My running pace at this point is wherever my mental state is during these sessions. This run is to purely pleasure to my mind. Endorphins tingle up and down my spine like pure, unfiltered electricity. Old school hip-hop is literally the C.R.E.A.M. to this double shot of espresso venti caramel frappucino. The city lights are dancing over me like strippers lap dancing at the Blue Flame. Drunken bar patrons are just existing and are a blur. When Jody gets going at this point, Jody literally has no idea what is going on.

Excuse my french but I am high as fuck as this point.

Everything is flowing at a sustainable, high functioning speed to complete my runner's high. I am happy, full, a little horny, and most of all I feel cool. I feel invincible. Man, I wish this car would hit me. I wish someone would come out and stab me in the gut and take my 5s. I wish someone would say some shit to me. My left foot hits the ground, my right foot hits the ground. I am tap dancing like that one kid who stays tap dancing in those shows in the 70s, completely in my element.

I stare up at the Capitol building on my way back, smiling like some idiot who just put blueberry syrup on some blueberry pancakes. Smiling so hard as my feet trip over the a crack in the sidewalk and my happy-ass falls face-down onto the sidewalk, tryna' to be cool.

"Trying to Be Cool" by Phoenix has been the anthem for years since I was a wildcat in Richmond Hill.