This is from Essay #4, which is a treatise on my first major run of the summer. I was camped at the base of Mt. Pisgah, just outside of Asheville, North Carolina. This particular mountain is nearly one-mile high, and the run I was about to try was 3,600 feet along a 6.5 mile route (13 miles total round trip).
The title of the essay: Just Move Forward comes from a lesson my parents taught me about how to finish what you start. This snippet is from the beginning of Act 2, where I lay out the violent side of my addiction, and touch on some of the nasty darkness that enveloped me as I hurtled towards oblivion.
“Listen, you don’t need to be a fucking bitch about this. I just wanted to talk with you, you stupid cunt,” he said, rather unexpectedly.
The two girls were taken aback, and I wasn’t exactly sure what to do. There’s a fine line between stepping in to help a woman out of a jam, and stepping in when she doesn’t need you. I’m not exactly sure where the line is, but it seems to be somewhere in the neighborhood of bitch and cunt getting used in the same sentence.
“Hey man,” I said from the seat. “There’s no need for that. We’re all just having fun here. My friend is having a rough night, and we’re just trying to relax a bit. No harm, no foul.”
That’s when he turned to me.
“What the fuck do you think you’re going to do about it.”