Then, my metric has long been to take my age and minus the place I come in from it; highest number wins.
“Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine,” is how I remember Patti Smith putting it.
Resurrection Seven; it’s on the road to being long enough to be its own cult.
Someday in the future, people will describe Easter as the day after the race and while some moldy old scholar will attempt to review which came first, it will all be chickens before eggs and vice-versa, those oivoid spheres being the ones in which manifests come.
You could tell which ones had directions in them, but only after you’d already picked it up and undone the tape, so it worked just as well to grab randomly, an admonition that’s probably not too far off.
Nor is the one that says just ride them in order, and it might not have been such a bad idea to do so, although I thought my route, surprisingly, wasn’t so bad.
I got the gluttony over first with a shot of chocolate sauce in Nora’s Woods.
Then, it was up and over to the Gum Wall where a tourist was even worse than me at using my camera phone; proving that pride goeth before a fall, especially on such an enthusiastically spring day.
I did envy in Queen Anne, although there wasn’t a thing I wished I had that I hadn’t.
Thanks to the sage advice of Tall Bryan I next got wrathful at Golden Gardens, destroying the shit out of a joint before heading up and over the hill straight up to 85th and a more or less straight shot to sloth in Ravenna, albeit with a five-minute dumbhead penalty for turning the wrong way.
Lust at the Bridge to Nowhere meant holding hands with a damp teddy.
And then: Gasworks; greedily burning wood and drinking around a fire.
Praise Jesus.
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