I may look silly, but I can run circles around you.

I’m officially one of those people.

You know the type. The freak in the gym who is too good for regular running shoes. The weirdo wearing those newfangled sneakers that look like gloves for feet. The pompous exercising hippy who thinks that aired soles and gelled cushioning do more harm than good.

The fashion victim on the treadmill.

Call me what you will---oddball, sasquatch, nerd. Just know that this tool in her freaky fingered shoes will run circles around you.

I love these damn shoes. Even if they’re ugly. Besides, I’m not really concerned about how I look in the gym. I’m concerned about how I look outside of it. And I don’t plan on wearing my monkey paws to the store.

Yet.

Nevada has a sweet quarter.

I love quarters. Since I was a kid, I collected the bicentennial drummer quarters (I have over thirty, in case you were wondering).

So when the U.S. decided to roll out the every-state-gets-its-own-quarter initiative, I couldn’t be happier.

I love paying with cash for the sole purpose of seeing which quarters I get in change. The problem, though, is that I rarely pay with cash.

So while reaching into my coin purse today for some 25 cent* pieces, I pulled out a quarter and decided to look at the back.

What I saw was a piece of art, as all state quarters are intended to be but rarely accomplish.

Nevada’s beautiful quarter features sinewy horses galloping amidst the mountains. A bright sun with long rays is rising over the scene, adding life and vibrancy. And the whole picture is book ended by luxuriously flowery branches.

It’s gorgeous.

And it’s going into my coin collection.

*Didn’t keyboards used to have the cent symbol over the six?

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

The writer gave up. She had written about every subject she could think of. She had typed every word she knew. And now she removed her hands from the keyboard, from her pencil, from her writing.

She left her chair and made her way to the nearest window so she could watch the rain slide down the glass. And she could pretend the drops were alive and she could hear their delightful squeals—much like she used to daydream in the back seat of her mom’s car as a child.

As a particularly swollen drop made it’s way down, gathering other drops during its decent, the writer heard a voice.

“Inspiration comes from odd places sometimes,” said the Muse from the other side of the window.

The writer cast her eyes upwards, matching the gaze of her creativity. “I haven’t seen you in a long while, old friend.” The writer pushed herself away from the window and turned away. “I thought you had abandoned me.”

The Muse had taken a seat at the writer’s chair. Her long legs were crossed and her delicate hands sat upon her knee. “I could never abandon you.” The satin words flowed from her like perfumed oil. “I love you.”

Angry that the Muse had been absent for so long, but fighting with a tinge of delight at seeing her old friend, the writer had to turn away again. Through tight lips she attempted to growl, “Don’t leave me again.”

The writer slowly pivoted to glance at her Muse but her eyes locked on the now empty chair.

Full of ideas for the first time in months, the writer returned to her chair and the words flowed from her. Like perfumed oil.

What year is it?

Apparently in Louisiana, it's 1850.

A judge refuses to marry interracial couples. Really?

And then he claims to not be racist.

Jackass.

Rain, can I ask you something?

Hi, Rain.

I would ask you how you’re doing, but I already know the answer to that. You’re strong and healthy and around. You’re thick and constant and wet.

And you’re making us all tired.

So I’m asking you, Rain, just give it a rest for a day. Let the sun through. Most of us have forgotten what he looks like.

I mean, think about it, Rain, you’re kind of hogging the sky. And the air. And the roads. You’ve been punishing us for who-knows-what for weeks. We’re all Vitamin D deprived because of it. Our hair sucks because of it. Our feet are constantly wet because of it.

So stop already.

Sincerely,

the People of Dallas

Life, you suck.

Just two weeks ago, my friend’s fiancé was telling me how this friend was his soul mate. How he had found the woman he’d be with for the rest of his life. How he could love no one more. How they were perfect together.

And he was true to his word. He spent the rest of his life with her. None of us were expecting that the rest of his life would be two weeks.

I just found out he died in a car wreck last night. And that’s fucked up. That’s really fucked up. That’s blew-a-hole-in-the-dictionary fucked up.

As someone who has found her someone, I can’t even fathom the sadness and depression my friend is going through. Of the life that was mapped out then shredded to bits by a slippery street. Of the bottomless pit that was once her heart.

On behalf of my friend, fuck you, life.

We haven’t evolved THAT much since cavemen. At least where fashion is concerned.

Many many years ago, our ancestors would race through the valleys, over the hills, through the trees in hot pursuit of some meaty animal. Our ancestors would club this beast to death; then use it as food, shelter, and even clothing.

As time progressed and climates changed, humans migrated to areas where new and exciting animals fell victim to arrows and flying stones. These animals were more attractive than the monochromatic beasts of the last habitat.

“This striped animal’s pelt would look great draped over my arms,” one nomad women proclaimed. “I might wear it to that dinner party next week.”

Her partner/husband (whatever you want to call him) was, at first, unclear as to why she cared about her appearance (she had mentioned something about the neighbor woman looking particularly and fashionably plump only the day before). But his interest was piqued when she said something about “having enough left over to make you some wonderful striped boots.”

Over the next week, she stripped the animal. She laid its skin out to dry. She stretched it, cut it, pressed it, and stitched it into something form fitting with a slit up the back and a drop in the front.

“What do you think,” she asked her mate as she sidled out into the other portion of their home structure. The outfit was bold (especially considering she had whittled some wood into strange shoes that elevated her heels above the plane of her toes—very bizarre indeed).

Her mate walked around her. Sized up his partner’s very unique outfit. Then slapped her on the ass with approval and continued watching the kids play some sport through a hold in their house.

The female was elated. She wore her new costume to the dinner party that very night. Two weeks later, all of the nomadic women were sporting outfits of various animal prints in a whole slew of different shapes and styles. Some had bone buttons and detachable belts. Others had matching boots and hats. And some were barely enough to protect them from the cold, but the women didn’t care for they looked hot.

And thus, style rocketed beyond need. And animal prints became all the rage.

And managed to remain in fashion up until today.