Endorphins are crazy, powerful stuff.
Especially on an empty stomach.
After you’ve hiked 11 miles.
(Kids, don’t try this at home.)
If I talked to you on Sunday, and it sounded like I was high or drunk, I was.
On endorphins (or more correctly, endomorphines).
Yes, that’s right, the biochemical the body produces while exercising mimics opiates, producing a powerful painkiller - and a sense of kick-ass well-being.
By the time I talked to Jason (he of the meat-eating robot), I was flying.
On nothing but endomorphines and tap water.
“Dude, you sound like you’re having fun,” Jason said. “You sound good.”
The crash was bound to happen.
I had a small bowl of edamame and some spicy California rolls and two more bottles of water around 7:30 p.m. I let the dogs out and settled with Chuck Palahniuk’s “Survivor” (I stopped and checked out the new city library, which is very cool – and they upped their Palahniuk collection by three, but still not “Fight Club,” which I find disappointing).
Four hours later, I woke up having to pee, still dressed, dogs still outside, satellite radio blaring Panic! At the Disco’s “I Write Sins Not Tragedies” and the bed lamp blazing.
Crash. Bang. Boom.
I know I shut everything off, let the dogs in, got undressed – but the memory of it is quite fuzzy.
I simply slipped back into a deep sleep, one that lasted until 6:30 a.m. Monday.
I likes em.
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