Catharsis

Lemme tell you what I do when I feel like punching the face off someone. I go jogging. I run till I can’t walk anymore then run some more, and then for the entire next day, I can barely walk let alone stand unpropped, but I feel better. Call me masochistic or opheliac or whatever, but somehow the 2 or 3 hours of running and a day of painfully stretched leg and ab muscles are the best catharsis one could ask for, besides trashing a car or grabbing a spray can to graffiti a building beyond recognition. You don’t go to jail for overworking your legs. Of course you have to add to the hours every now in then , because your body gets used to it as it grows fit. If you're thinking of trying that out, 10 minutes should do the trick. My way of punching it out in a pillow, so to speak. Somehow, overworking the muscles “underworks” the head. I dunno how it works, but it does. Besides the shot of endorphins, you’ll feel like you own the universe.

What I see when I go jogging:

• The Dog-walkers. People walking their precious dogs, which is usual in this area since the dogs outnumber humans two to one. I remember watching this stand-up comedian, Seinfeld, put it way better than I ever can. “On my block, a lot of people walk their dogs and I always see them walking along with their little poop bags. This, to me, is the lowest activity in human life. Following a dog with a little scooper. Waiting for him to go so you can walk down the street with it in your bag. If aliens are watching this through telescopes, they're going to think the dogs are the leaders of the planet. If you see two life forms, one of them is making a poop, the other one's carrying it for him, who would you assume is in charge?”.
• The Couple. If they’re old enough you’ll see the telepathic understanding that makes you think they’re almost communicating in imaginary winks, never jogging out of each other’s pace or even looking at one another, yet are synchronised. If they’re young enough, there are three types. The first where the female is talking nonsensically and incessantly into thin air, laughing at her own jokes with the male uncomfortably looking ahead with brief toe-checking head bows, so obviously unused to being perceived as in the realm of couple-hood. The second, the male talking and bragging, also into thin air, so that it almost seems as if he’s trying to exercise every muscle in his body, including his tongue muscle, whereas the female is usually uncomfortably sporting a tight lipped expression, breathing harder when she exhales in one of those concealed sighs. The third and most boring, are the quiet ones. They do not stand in  comparison with the older ones, because to an outsider’s eye, all of their energy is going into the effort of keeping in synch with one another without actually talking. Reason unknown, but they’re taking themselves a bit too seriously.
• The Hunk. Sporting up his headphones, six pack abs and floating near by to the ground bending and reverberating with his weight, almost bouncing him back up in between hops, so full of himself, conscious of exactly how hot he is and hiding the smirk till after he passes you by.
• The Timid Hottie. The female version of the aforementioned hunk. She knows she’s a looker, and takes her time, turning heads and breaking the crumbs of ego left in the menopausal maniacs. We’ll come to that later.
• The Teens. Those are usually in twos and threes, more to chatter than find safety in numbers, confrontationally sporting egos bigger than their oversized shoes, jogging effortlessly back and forth exchanging jokes out of breath so that you hear the most absurd lines out of context.
• The Lonely Spinsters and The Menopausal Maniacs. The former usually fat and not so presentable whilst the latter in flirtatious clothes, so obviously asking for it, almost always giving you the sideway glance in pure despise you couldn’t possibly have had it coming. More often than not, they’ll do anything to outrun you, and to tell you the truth, I usually slow down till they pass me by, right up into their depressed bubble.
• The Old Man. Barely able to walk, inventing a jogging pace of his own, where he walks wobbling, thus giving whatever balance centre in his head the impression of jogging without actually having to do it. More like a bottle in the sea, the sideway duck gait as he handles himself with the utmost care, knowing how breakable he is. Nevertheless, they hang around more than the couples, spinsters and sometimes even teens. I’m beginning to think one keeps their determination in one’s knees.
• The Desperate 40ers. Usually males, the best dressed and most groomed, jogging for an ego boost, relishing the feeling of control more than the burning of calories. Their jogging pace shows it so, bolting all of a sudden in all the glory of a couch potato, then panting and coming to a halt out of breath not a couple of minutes into it. That’s when the fancy water bottles and other unnamely gadgets start showing up. Oh for the love of coffee, go masturbate or something.
• The Prowlers. The scariest genre. Usually passive with the exception of the active bunch. Hanging around in parked cars or walking back and forth calling people names and following you around till you’re scared out of your wits and end up making a scene or running for it. I usually run for it, most of them are too doped up and suicidal to think twice about turning you into an obituary picture since most of them wouldn’t even afford one.
• The Joggers. Usually misfits with sweat stains like inverted halos on the backs of their cotton T-shirts. They know what they’re doing and they don’t look farther than a couple of tiles down the road. They know their way around, with padded sneakers to decrease impact and perfectly spaced out breathing patterns to get the most out of the cardiovascular workout, so they don’t look like an overworked track dog before you can say “good morning”.