I was tipsy. I was high. And I was feeling hungry. So I went to a nearby food kiosk to buy some food. This particular quest went swimmingly, but it got interesting on my journey back home.
At the food kiosk, there were plenty of starving customers, and so I had to wait for my turn at the cashier. I already had my food, I only had to pay. Now, because I was not sober, after several moments of waiting in the disorganised queue, I forgot what I was waiting for and walked off for home. Almost halfway down the road, I remembered that I hadn’t paid for my food, but decided that since I walked away unnoticed, I could keep the money. It is at this point that I heard someone calling out for me. I turned to look, and saw a young man speedily marching in my direction, gesturing with his hand for me to stop. There was no one else on the road apart from us and some stray chicken. This young man is the young man who helps around at the aforementioned food kiosk. In fact, he was the one who packed my food. The instant I saw him, my inebriated mind convinced me that they’d realise that I hadn’t paid for my food, at the kiosk, and this guy was coming to raise hell about it. Shit. I was in grave trouble, my drunken mind assured me. I was freaking out.
So, instead of stopping to hear what the young man had to say, I instinctively ran. I made a mad sprint for the building that houses me. The guy started running after me, shouting for me to stop. I could hear his footsteps closing in fast on the distance between us. Holy crap. I couldn’t let him catch me. I ran even faster. Meanwhile, my irrational brain was telling me that I’d conned them, that I’d stolen their food, and they would put a tyre around me and set me on fire, alive, with spectators cheering on. Damn. The thought of being burnt alive was enough adrenaline to fuel my speed. I bolted, like a freaking cheetah, and knocked over the chicken on the road, and they, too, started running ahead of me, squawking and flapping their wings furiously. One of my sandals slipped off one foot and flew across the road. My floppy breasts swung from side to side, clapping and slapping my ribs. My face was covered in sweat and fear. I ran as though I was an Olympic finalist in the 100-meter dash and I HAD to beat Usain Bolt. I am certain that there was a cloud of dust at my feet as I ran. I am sure that there were people looking at me, puzzled, but I didn’t give a hoot. I had to protect myself from that embarrassing public execution at all costs, even at the cost of my dignity.
Just as I was getting to my plot’s gate, this young man caught up with me, and I heard him ask, surprised, why the hell I was running. I immediately turned around to plead for mercy, but he had his hand stretched out. He was giving me something. It was my phone. I had accidentally dropped it at the kiosk when leaving. That was the reason he was trying to stop me.
With that, I can confidently say that my (Sun)day was a success. Sure, my chest and legs are suffering the consequences of that historic run, and I should put myself on bed rest and Deep Heat for the rest of the month, but it was good workout for my hamstrings and excellent cardio exercise, so I’m not gonna complain. Plus, I got to keep the money.
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