Run # 423 /August 25, 2008
Hare: P Dicky
Scribe: Just Laurel
Meet me on DeKalb Ave, you told me, and I dutifully arrive at 7, my heart aflutter and my hair carefully brushed into a ponytail. It started off innocently at first – smiles, laughter, your hair blowing in the wind. Then things started to get a bit more serious. You left me breathless, my chest heaving, as you ran me through the pleasant Brooklyn neighborhoods. They were the types of places you plant gardens, raise families, grow old. Grow old together. I wondered, could this be us? Is this our future?
But then you kept running faster, faster making sharp turns and shouting "On on!" (which I took to be your code for "Follow me, my love, my only love.") I followed the sound of your pounding footsteps as the charming brownstones faded away – but I trusted you. I thought you would never lead me astray. Suddenly you were gone, leaving nothing but a few mysterious arrows that beckoned me to follow. I wondered what romantic rendezvous you had planned, when you were going to jump out and yell surprise.
Curse my stupid, trusting heart. I should have known after that first circle jerk, which was no less than 2 blocks from where you told me to meet you. After a mile of parking lots, chain link fences, broken glass and unwelcoming factories, I began to get worried. Then I noticed a smell, or was it multiple smells? Is my love teasing me?, I wondered.
When I approached the Gowanus Canal I thought you must be testing my faith. When the path lead to it a second time, I thought no, surely not. Oh but the third time you forced me to cross those fowl waters – how could you? And then, adding insults to injury, you made me run along the BQE. All I could do was try to hold my head up and carry on.
I got to the on-in with tears in my eyes (or was it sweat?) and my confidence in shambles. You tried to act nonchalant. You offered no apology, only a good selection of beer, which while refreshing, did not take the sting out of what you had put me through.
Trying to win back my affection, no doubt, you called me to join you in your circle of merriment. You sang songs to P Dicky and then invited him to drink for setting the trail – your trail of deception – and forcing me to run past the Gowanus a heinous amount of times. You called in House of Weenies and presented him with a beer as a reward for using technology on trail (and then continuing to do so during the circle).
I thought things were going well between us again, until you beckoned in some first time Brooklyn hashers and a couple of true virgins – need I remind you that I too was a virgin when first we met? As if that wasn’t enough, you flaunted Drag Hag, Rebecca, Bonnie and Alison, who had all slipped into "something more comfortable," i.e. flowing evening gowns. And then you lovingly called Alison by your (official) pet name – Beer Queer. My heart shattered, although I plastered a drunken smile on my face.
Also called to your precious circle were Candy Stripper for passing his RN exam, Tim for running 20 miles but stopping before trail to shower and write one hash related email for every mile he ran, and some random guy – probably just because he caught your cold, callous, roving eye.
No amount of delicious pizza can make you for what you did. I will never love again. But I will be back next Monday.