I hate you, knee.

Dearest Left Knee,

I didn't ask for you, you know. Had I wanted an irritable, delicate, injury-prone knee, I would have placed an order for one at birth. But I didn't, Left Knee. Because I didn't want you.

Why can't you be more like Right Knee? I know you snicker because Right Knee is emblazoned with a birth mark in the shape of Pac Man (with a tail), but don't judge a book by it's cover. I'd take Right Knee over you, any day, Lefty. You snob. Stop laughing. It's just a birth mark.

I should probably thank you, Left Knee, because you did hold out long enough to allow me to run the Chicago Marathon in peace. But I need you to last longer, Knee. We still have lots of life to live together, and lots of running to do. For example, the half-marathon - in 16 days. So how about you make haste and shape up, Left Knee? I'm sick of your pouting. I'm sore, boo hoo. I don't want to run today, I want to ache instead.

I've heard enough, you whiney bastard.

I will run this half marathon, and I will do a triathlon next month, and I will run another marathon in the fall. Do you understand? You will deal with it, Knee, or I will replace you. Oooh. I said it. Replace. Knee replacement. And that's not pretty. Yes, you're shaking in your little joint socket, aren't you, you pansy?

Now quit crying like a little girl! Get out there and be a man! Er, knee! Yeah. Take that.