I stand at the starting line, ready to give the next 13.1 miles my all.
On my right is the ex-boyfriend, on my left is the roommate, and on her left is her ex-almost-was-boyfriend/soon-to-be-boyfriend/"things are just terribly awkward between us right now" thing. On his left is his good friend, who has fought a valiant battle for roommate's affections to no avail thanks to the man standing next to him. Beyond, we have Mexican Pocker Night boy, the girl next door, and her attractive brother.
Already this run is messed. It's the perfect set-up to be the climax of some over-hyped romantical comic masterpiece capable of drawing chicks for kilometers around to the nearest Movies 8.
The gun goes off.
Commence pushing and shoving, dramatic conversations about the past, tears shed, blood trails, old loves re-kindled, new loves born, spontaneous man-brawls, the petty dunking of heads into the freezing lake, and the tripping of arch-rivals at the finish line.
Alright, de-commencing overactive imagination.
Though actual happenings of the race fell just short of Hollywood hype, entertainment ran far from short.
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