I mean, I'm just picking them up and putting them down at a reasonable turnover rate while I feel like my lungs are on fire and my legs are making a thousand promises of pain to come. Why? I mean, I feel a little high afterwards, but my junky brother-in-law does heroin and seems just as happy as I do when I bust my ass, literally, for seemingly no reason that's not purely masturbatory. I meditated on this undeniable fact for what felt like eternity, but was really four minutes of my race time, and I had the realization that nothing in my life makes sense. I'm working sixty hours a week for NASA, and for what? I could just sit on my ass and collect welfare while binge watching Trailer Park Boys and the latest from my favorite let's players as I indulge in Debbie Cakes and feet porn and achieve the same level of dopamine release. Why the fuck am I doing this to myself? I just...I think I'm having an existential breakdown. Can you help me? I don't know what to do now besides waking up and half-assing my current routine of running around the block a few times before slowing to a stop and wondering the purpose of human existence. I'm at a loss. SOS.