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"Hike": This Fuckin' Guy Spends a Weekend Hiking.

 
Hike
 
Prologue:
First, to expose a fucking artifice for what it fucking is:
This is not an actual fucking diary
I wrote all of this on the same fucking day (July 27).
So, even though I fucking wrote it to make it look like a diary
I am not fucking interested in convincing you
That this is a fucking diary.
Rather, I want to make it crystal fucking clear
That this is not, in fucking fact, an actual fucking diary,
So as not to be fucking misleading.
So let's get fucking started.
 
Thursday, July 24, 5:30 PM:
I'm in the fucking hardware store
Having a fucking set of keys made,
And the music that is playing
Is "Dueling Fucking Banjo's" --
The fucking theme song from fucking Deliverance.
The motherfucker making the fucking keys
Is talking to me about
How the banjos are driving him fucking crazy and he can't fucking think,
But I'm thinking about how in two days,
I'm supposed to go on a fucking hike
On the Appalachian Fucking Trail
And I don't want what happened to Ned Fucking Beatty
To happen to me
Or any one else I'll be hiking with,
(Or to fucking anybody, really. It was really fucking fucked up what happened to
Ned Fucking Beatty in Deliverance).
(And yes, I fucking know that in Deliverance,
It's a fucking canoe trip; not a fucking hike.
But for someone like me,
Who spends very little fucking time in nature
(Which is especially odd,
Considering I like to consider myself
A fucking nature poet),
A fucking canoe trip
And a fucking hike,
Are the same fucking motherfucking difference).
 
But, so I'm wondering,
Is this a fucking sign?
Should I not go?
No, that's fucking stupid.
It's not a fucking sign.
But then, if I fucking go,
And what happened to Ned Beatty
Happens to me,
Then I'm going to feel really fucking stupid
For tempting fucking fate.
 
Friday, July 24, 12:30 PM:
Well, it's all fucking set
For fucking sure,
Ned Beatty or no,
I'm fucking going.
Wait--I'm fucking going?
I'm going to hike 20 fucking miles 
On the fucking Appalachian Trail
Over two fucking days?
Am I out of my fucking mind?
Do I realize how little fucking experience I have fucking hiking?
Do I know how fucking old I am?
I'm fucking old.
Maybe it doesn't fucking matter how fucking old I am.
There was a 79 year motherfucker who hiked the whole fucking AT,
2200 miles of that shit.
So I should be able to handle fucking 20.
Over one motherfucking weekend.
10 miles on fucking Saturday,
Camp out overnight,
10 more fucking miles on Sunday,
And boom. Fucking done. Boom.
That seems fucking doable.
Actually, that sounds like a really nice time.*
 
Saturday, July 25, 9:25 PM:
This fucking hike
Started out pretty fucking hard
Maybe 20 fucking minutes of pretty fucking steep uphill shit.
But the whole fucking time,
I'm thinking, it seems pretty fucking manageable.
The hardest part for me, really,
Is when you pass motherfuckers going the other way,
You're supposed to say hi to them.
And that's just not my fucking way.
But I do it. I say fucking hi to a shitload of motherfuckers
Going the other fucking way.
I don't fucking like it, but I fucking do it.
And actually, 
I don't fucking like that I don't fucking like doing it.
I feel like, I should get over that self conscious shit.
I'm too fucking old to be this fucking self fucking conscious.
One good thing--nobody looked like the
"I'm going to Ned Beatty your ass" type.
Almost everybody on the fucking trail
Seemed really fucking nice,
And everybody else was at least ok.
We didn't get as far as we fucking planned,
So we will have to do 12 fucking miles tomorrow.
But we will be up earlier
We should be okay.
We should be fucking fine.
And this is a really nice time,
Looking up through the motherfucking tent
At the beautiful motherfucking trees.
Fucking fuck me.
It's too fucking cloudy to see the fucking stars,
But it's still very motherfucking beautiful.
No fucking lie.
 
Sunday, July 26, 6:15 PM:
We fucking slept late,
And I should be fucking panicking,
Like, how the fuck are we going to ever fucking finish this,
And how the fuck am I going to handle
These steep motherfucking descents
Without breaking a motherfucking ankle?
But I'm not fucking panicking.
I'm fucking doing it:
I'm fucking hiking,
I'm drinking the water from the motherfucking waterfall
(After purifying it, of course),
And I'm saying hi to motherfuckers,
Even exchanging a few words with some of them.
I'm fucking interacting with motherfuckers.

I mean, don't get me fucking wrong,
I'm still a fucking misanthrope a lot of the fucking time,
And selfish, and self centered-- observe,
For fucking example,
How I haven't even taken the fucking time
To even name the other people hiking with me
(Rachel, Mike, Liz and Rick,
And there's also a dog: Viola).

Although that's as much to do
With my result-oriented fucking nature
As anything fucking else.
I just want to finish writing this shit.
I'm enjoying writing it,
But it already feels fucking long,
And I feel like it should be fucking done.
Just like, by the 17th or 18th fucking mile,
I feel like this fucking hike should be done.
So fucking result oriented:
Like how I won't even stop to pick a fucking blackberry
Off a motherfucking bush.
But then, when Rachel picks them,
Fuck yes, I will eat those motherfuckers,
And acknowledge that yes,
They are motherfucking delicious.
And I'm so fucking easily distracted
Instead of just being fucking present,
In the beautiful fucking eternal fucking now.
Mosquitos hum in my fucking ear,
And I hear fucking "Summer's Caldron" by XTC.
And then I can't get that fucking song out of my fucking head
For fucking hours.
Not to mention "Dueling Fucking Banjos."
Which has been stuck in my fucking head
All fucking weekend.
And then, at one fucking point,
I'm thinking, wait, what was that fucking thing,
With the banjos and two people shouting at once?
It's not a Monty Fucking Python fucking thing.
 
And then I remember: 
"Dueling Fucking Brandos."
One of them was John Belushi,
But who was the other motherfucker?
That shit is going to bother me until
I look that shit up
But I'm not fucking going to do that now.
It's bad enough I keep checking my fucking email.
Why can't I be off-fucking-line?
Why can't I be off the fucking grid?
I mostly am, and it's really fucking nice.
But it is so fucking hard
To not look that shit up.
Like the other day,
At the fucking Indian Restaurant,
When they served some very large motherfucking dosas,
And Ben had to look up
"World's Largest Fucking Dosa,"
I totally fucking understood.
But of course, he probably doesn't do that shit
When he's on a fucking hike.
But can I not look that shit up?
Can I?

Sunday, July 2, 7:45 PM:
Yes!
I fucking did it!
It's fucking done!
I fucking made it!
I made it the whole fucking twenty miles
Without looking that shit up,
Or breaking my ankle,
Or getting fucking Beatty'd.
Not only that,
I would do that shit again.
Soon.
I really fucking would.
I fucking would.
 
Monday, July 27, 2:00 PM:
It was Peter Fucking Boyle.
 
July 27, 2015
 
*Note: "That sounds like a really nice time" is non-registered trademark of This Fuckin' Guy.



















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