I'm no Lance

I've got a pretty severe case of the Fuckitz right now, a result, I'm sure of far too many 70 hour work weeks. It's been tough for me to even get out of bed right now, much less showered and productive. My roommate must think I actually AM a vampire.

I admitted to YogaChick how down I was and she talked me through it, ending with "I still trust you with your shoelaces." When I asked her if she was certain of that she laughed and said, "Yes. While we were talking you were also scooping out the kitty litter. Someone who is actually suicidal would not clean up cat shit."

She has a point.

I remember reading It's Not About the Bike, the inspirational Lance Armstrong autobiography, a few years ago. At his sickest, Lance still rode 10 miles every day, convincing himself that if he could still ride he couldn't be dying.

Lance rode 10 miles a day. I scoop cat litter. Whatever it takes, I guess.