I like jogging even though it hurts my ass.

I jog alone. Always have done. Always will. I have no desire to join those run club cults. The ones that require $500 bowel movement tracking GPS watches, taut and tanned legs, spongy art gallerist trainers, banal flirtation between lonely souls, post-run oat flat whites, and sex-freak vests.

Of the top ten things I wanted in a new house, a pond was not one of them. When we decided to move to our present house, the pond we inherited was a murky-algae-puddle that I envisioned as a future patio. As we began tackling projects, we moved the pond work to the bottom of the priority list, seeking a way to keep it going temporarily until I could hire a bulldozer to fill it in with dirt.

ANNA sits at the defendant’s table looking around uncertainly, wearing only her pajama shorts and her boyfriend’s t-shirt.

PROSECUTOR walks across the room, dropping off a paper at the JUDGE’S STAND. She looks similar to Anna except her hair is neatly brushed and she is wearing a professional suit.

THE STENOGRAPHER sits on the other side of the room across from the jury. She looks nearly identical to ANNA, wearing glasses and a skirt.

Beware the man who looks like he should be tossing tuna carcasses at the Fulton Fish Market, who calls himself a urologist, and is bearing a tube with a camera on it, headed for your penis …

“I’m not numb yet” I say, but he proceeds to ram the tube inside me. 

Apparently, a preposition is a bad word to end a sentence with. I don’t know if that’s a grammatical rule you’re obligated to adhere to. There seem to be so many examples in literature which this rule doesn’t apply in. Or to. I suspect this is the kind of “rule” like the “rule” of never using the split infinitive in English because it’s not permitted in Latin, a language that’s impossible to use it in.