TWENTY FOUR

An exercise in vanity

Simpler hair needed...

TWENTY THREE

TWENTY TWO

Artistic Statement 

(very rough)

I established Progressive Theatre Workshop in 2007 as a response to a lack of non-traditional approach in the development and creation of new works of theatre in Phoenix. It seemed that the community in which I was creating my work relied heavily, if not solely, on historical standards of production even when tackling less traditional material. This is not to say that I am entirely opposed to a more mainstream and familiar approach. In fact, I find it imperative to acknowledge and preserve theatrical roots because the past allows insight into the future. Still, I was disheartened by the predictability of directorial choices and the selection of material that was occurring around me. It is absolutely critical to nurture the development of new texts which is why Progressive Theatre Workshop unwaveringly remains devoted to its mission of devising, workshopping, rehearsing, and producing pieces never before seen by audiences. Text development was only the first step toward injecting instability into a system of artistic representation that holds close to a tried and true lexicon of standard theatrical definitions. 

As a director, I seek to deliver an audience to response via the path of unexpectedness and greatest resistance. It has become a necessity of my work to not only engage audience but to hold them responsible for their participation in artistic exchange. Moreover, through this exchange it is my intent to take my audience to a reality that is distinctly and unquestionably different than their own. 

Inspired by the work of directors Richard Foreman, Anne Bogart, and Elizabeth LeCompte, as well as playwrights Sarah Kane, Samuel Beckett, and Suzan-Lori Parks, I attempt to create a world that shocks an audience into participation. Further, I attempt to induce response while aggressively seeking a conduit leading to said response that might leave an audience confused about how they arrived there. Is it possible for an audience to sob when everything they are witnessing tells them they should be laughing? Conversely, how am I able to drive an audience to laughter when something tragic is unfolding before them? The interruption, disruption, and reconfiguration of logical cause and effect are the primary informants of my directorial sensibilities. 

Throughout the rehearsal process, I am constantly assessing the work and anticipating possible response in order to reevaluate and detect possible points of alteration in design, movement, gaze, and approach, in order to create a layered world that is much too dense to decipher at first glance... or fifth glance. This is not done in an effort to purposefully guide an audience into unreconcilable confusion. It is done with the audiences experience in mind. 

There have been very few instances where I as an audience member can recall feeling a certain way and not understanding why. Emotional response is wonderful but the human tendency to assign logic and explanation keeps the audience in their seats and never allows them to fully transcend. Getting mired in reasoning and analysis takes away from the experience. 

The dreamworld is an appropriate comparison. In our dreams everything makes sense. The most absurd and unlikely of scenarios are accepted as fact and we respond to them emotionally. We wake up and begin to analyze, forget, consult symbol dictionaries... and soon the world in which we just took flight becomes more flat than our present reality. In this respect, my choices as a director are positioned toward keeping an audience in the surreal and acceptable chaos of a dream. This requires precise and sometimes manipulative methods that destroy alarm clocks of logical perception that could wake them.

Due to my acute attention to audience response and reconciliation of perception, my work is not as cold and callous as its description might indicate. The audience is taken care of as I attempt to set them down abruptly in a reality that is vastly different from their own. Theatre and art should be an adventure and departure from the mundane and recognizable. We live and breathe reality every day. It’s time to explore the places our hearts, minds, and relationships have never been. 

TWENTY ONE

ALL ABOUT DATE RAPE or ANNE AND ME HAVE BABIES

I keep walking into things. These things aren't like sparkling clean paned glass windows. These are brick walls that I know will leave a bruise. I don't just walk into them. I see them in the distance and run full force knowing what is to come. Splat.

I'm ready to meet people... I think. I'm a bit frustrated. I keep finding and pursuing things that I know I shouldn't. The issue is not one of self-control. Rather, I'm so interested in sharing things with another person that I make conscious choices to step into flames hoping that maybe this time it won't burn but instead warm me to the core.

Some pursuits have been more logical than others. Some held promise of actually being able to be around the other person in the future. Perhaps not the immediate future but in the future nonetheless. Others were a tad bit futile. I'm just very ready to love... to be loved... to hold and be held. I'm very ready to talk and to expose my soul and rummage through the soul of another.

*simulated jack off hand gesture with a raspberry noise*

Corny. Pathetic. Ridiculous. Beautiful.

BUT.

I can't have it now apparently.

A theme seems to be surfacing that has not much to do with my current state of purgatory. It seems that a huge amount of men are scared to death of having someone treat them well. Here's the deal. When I truly have an interest in a person, I go to the ends of the earth for them. I do a lot. Too much sometimes. And I think a lot of people are afraid of being treated like royalty. I always think that maybe it's my flaw to fix... my burden to carry... but more and more I'm shifting into the mindset that all I've come across are boys. No men. Boys who don't know what they want. Boys who have somehow programmed themselves to feel they don't deserve five star treatment.

I'll tell you one thing. I DESERVE IT. And I give it. And if I give it and you shun it?... Or. If I give it and you don't RETURN it? ...

You gots to go. I don't have the time or the patience to convince you that you deserve my love. And I certainly don't have the time to be involved and look at my watch waiting for you to reciprocate.

You see, I've got other things going on. I have a career to nurture and friends and family to support. I've got showers to take and nights that need at least 5-6 hours of sleep. I can't neglect all of that because you need a lengthy presentation on romance complete with visual aids. I can't ignore all of the other incredible parts of my life because your balls haven't yet dropped and you are still chasing after bullshit.

One of a few things are going to happen in the future when it comes to this mess.

1.) A MAN... not a boy... is going to come along and treat me well from the start and initiate the taking care of and show me.

2.) A MAN... not a boy... is going to be shy and let me treat them well for a brief amount of time before stepping up and giving back.

or

3.) I'm going to marry Anne Wareing.

I'm not about to settle for anything less than maturity, honesty, humor, and unbridled passion.

When you kiss me, it better be good.

When you touch me, it better be tender but firm with clear intent from the start.

When you speak to me, you better make me laugh HARD.

When you meet me, you better look me in the eye.

When we embrace, you better smell like heaven.

When we wake up in the morning, you better roll over and get into my arms.

When we go out places, you better not hide me for one moment.

When we see a movie, you better hold my hand and squeeze at the good parts. Or bad ones.

When you see my art, you better tell me what you think AND WHY.

When we get ready to go to dinner, you better help me tie my tie even if you're bad at it.

When we make love, you better tell me I'm beautiful and tolerate my insecurity because as soon as you do... look out.

This is a lot to ask for...


This life is too short to settle for mediocrity. I'd rather be alone until I'm 50 and find this than to put myself into a relationship that will leave me feeling trapped and alone.


My biggest fear is that... he... will be too afraid to settle into it.


You know when you start to fall asleep and you are so very peaceful and calm and then the sleep gets increasingly calm and peaceful until finally it is too calm and you involuntarily jerk yourself out of it?


My biggest fear is that... he... will do THAT because he can't let me hold him and lay him gently into the beauty of what we could become.


And that, my friends, is when the kids resort to using the newfangled date rape tablets.


Don't make me drug you. Just man up.

TWENTY

RUNNING LOG ENTRY

Distance: 7 miles, steady

Time: 75:14

Comments: Started out extremely pessimistic about my prospects of making it through. After mile 3, I was set. Very little pain. Slight shin stitches and some achilles stress. Went away. Little pain during the day after run. Started sobbing (literally) toward the end. People stared. I was close to something big, larger than I... I was being pulled through but still got all of the credit. I can do anything. These are my thoughts. I was moved as I moved. I got to peace and finished with grace and power. 

Next Run Monday May 25, 2009, 4 miles steady.

NINETEEN

Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa.

Slow slow slow slow slow.

And not now.

But...

Cheers.

That is supposed to be there and you are supposed to be then.

I know things.

I'm sure of things.

I have the logic of myself but the heart of hope.

Take the heart.

Put it in a box.

Lock it up.

Swallow.

Silk is smooth but you see every sweat stain.

Cling to friends.

Run.

Be.

I.

EIGHTEEN

RUNNING LOG ENTRY

Late entry. Run date: 5/21/09

Distance: 5 miles, steady

Time: 53:33

Comments: Difficult. Tired. Distracted. I think my sleep schedule over the past week is causing things to be much more difficult than they could be. Sickish feeling the rest of the day. Sleepy. 

Next Run Sunday May 24, 2009, 7 miles steady.

SEVENTEEN

Susan Boyle sings

I Dreamed a Dream....

starring the chin and 

voice of John Caswell, Jr.

SIXTEEN

RUNNING LOG ENTRY

These are my new running shoes which apparently blister my right arch.

Distance: 6 miles, steady

Time: 63:33

Comments: Harder than the first 6 mile run. I've had a few rough days which might have something to do with it. Blister developed on my right foot in the inner arch. I had to go straight to work afterwards which was a bummer. I think it was distracting me. Must save long runs for days off. I got off schedule by a day due to a bad sinus allergy deal. I still got all of my miles for the week in.

Next Run Monday May 18, 2 miles easy

FIFTEEN

This is pretty much what happened last night at a Phoenix night club. I'm certain I looked this foolish.

***And. I need to stop giving out my phone number since I don't answer it anyway.***

Carlton and Foot Loose

FOURTEEN

RUNNING LOG ENTRY

Distance: 5 miles (1200 Warm 800 jog 1600@6.2MPH 800 jog 1600@6.4MPH 800 jog 1200 Cool)

Time: 50:33

Comments: Slightly sick today. Congestion and allergies. New shoes. Pain typically felt in left achilles didn't happen this time. First training session with speed work. Pretty easy this time. Different treadmill at different gym. Was kind of awkward and unfamiliar at first. Need to start running outside soon.

Next Run Saturday May 16, 6 miles

THIRTEEN

This is going on my left wrist very soon. I've never gotten a tattoo.

What would possess this little girl to let go of her shiny red heart shaped balloon?

What would posses this boy to let go of his love?

Sometimes love isn't enough. Sometimes you have to let go to find your place.

I miss that balloon. So far, all of the new balloons have been less than appealing, save for a few.

I cry when I see this image. Every single time. 

This is why I'm putting it on my body.

*artwork by Banksy

TWELVE

This entry died a quick and painless death.

ELEVEN

CURTAIN CALL..

I leave Phoenix in TWO months. 

Curtain Call Lyrics, Tori Amos...

ebony beauty 
pass this shade 
the looking glass relects 
then a voice calls me back, 
"this is just circumstance it is not 
personal", oh no it never is. 
then you ram your hand in your bag 
for a little friendly substance 

By the time you're 25 
they will say, "you've gone and blown it". 
By the time you're 35, I must confide, 
you will have blown them all 
Right on cue just act surprised 
when they invite you to take 
your curtain call 
you climbed China's wall 
your 
curtain call 

I have done what I've done 
and it has the ultimate consequence 
then a voice calls me back, 
"this is not business, no, 
its more like spiritual" 
is that what it is 
Then you ram your hand in your bag 
for a little protection 

By the time you're 25 
they will say, "you've gona and blown it." 
By the time you're 35, I must confide, 
you will have blown them all 
Right on cue just act surprised 
when they invite you to take 
your curtain call 
you climbed China's wall 
your curtain call 

ebony beauty 
pass this shade 
the looking glass reflects

TEN

FLY

It's worth it.

NINE

When the call center gig gets you down and it seems the day will

never end, just close your eyes tight and whisper with enthusiasm to yourself,

"I have a beautiful phone voice."

Or pretend your headset is really a mic and that you are moments away from performing in some rock musical.

EIGHT

Captain's Log

I don't care if I'm following a trend because this is trendworthy. Suck donk. Star Trek was wonderful and makes me want to enlist in Star Fleet. And I'll have you know that trend avoidance is a trend in and of itself. The ideal that one would want to remain individual by rejecting ALL trends has become somewhat.... a trend? Get over it and start choosing your entertainment and art based on your own tastes. 

So I would see the film again. I'd also go out afterward for 30 minutes again. I'd also hop in the sheets with lots of people in the film. 

Tonight was good for more reasons than one. 

Take risks, the film said. So take them. What's the worst that could happen? It is doubtful your personal life will collapse into a black hole... so go for it. Live it. Say it. Do it. Figure it all out.

There are plenty of stars in the sky. There are plenty of fish in the sea.

SEVEN

RUNNING LOG ENTRY

Distance: 6 miles

Time: 62:04

Comments: So difficult. Not physically. Mentally. I was distracted and sidetracked and found it very difficult to get into my head and let go. I was very very aware of the passage of time moving very slowly. My nipple got irritated. Must start taping. Toe nail kind of cracked. Made it through.

Next Run Monday May 11 (2 miles, easy before late week build to 7 miles)

SIX

Jiffy Lube

You know what they say about people who wait? They get screwed in the face.

FIVE

THIS IS STILL MY ANTHEM...

For those that don't know, I have a thing for Tori Amos. And Take To The Sky has always been my motto. A long... motto. This is me.

Take To The Sky by Tori Amos: Lyrics

This house is like Russia
With eyes cold and grey
You got me moving in a circle
I dyed my hair red today

I just want a little passion
To hold me in the dark
I know I've got some magic
Buried deep in my heart yeah

But my priest says
You ain't saving no souls
My father says
You ain't making any money
My doctor says
You just took it to the limit
And here I stand
With this sword in my hand
You can say it one more time
What you don't like
Let me hear it one more time then
Have a seat while I
Take to the sky

My heart is like the ocean
It gets in the way
So close to touching freedom
Then I hear the guards call my name

But my priest says
You ain't taking no souls
My father says
You ain't making any money
My doctor says
You just took it to the limit
And here I stand
With this sword in my hand
You can say it one more time
What you don't like
Let me hear it one more time then
Have a seat while I
Take to the sky

If you don't like me just a little
Why do you hang around
(There she goes again
Wearing those purple panties
There she goes again
Wearing her heart
There she goes again)
Why do you
Take it
You can say it one more time
You can say it one more time
You can say it one more time
What you don't like
Let me hear it one more time then
Have a seat while I
Take to the sky

FOUR

I WAS BORN AT 11:11

I never knew if my mother was completely serious about me being born at 11:11 until I found my birth certificate.

I get text messages from people when it is 11:11AM/PM telling me to make a wish. It's lucky? Yeah? Or something. My mother sends me the same messages but for a different reason. She only does it in the morning if she happens to be looking at the clock at 11:11AM.... which is about 2-3 times a week I'd gather. She has told me since I can remember that I was born at that time. While I enjoy the symmetry of two vertical lines split by a pair of dots, I didn't understand the lore of 11:11 until I was a bit older when I learned that a great deal of people catch the clock at that time. Apparently it has a lot to do with some hoodoo-voodoo-astrology-spirit guide kind of junk. Still, when I tell people I was born at 11:11, they always tell me how lucky I must be.

Am I? Well. I've been through and survived some stuff that should have killed me. But. I was also born in Arizona. How lucky is that?  

THREE

WORK IN PROGRESS (UNEDITED)

TRANSEXUAL LINEBACKER NAMED HEAT

by J. Caswell, Jr. 

I’ve kept my life locked, padlocked, deadbolted, chained. I’ve kept it all behind closed doors. The doors have been sealed for so very long, they have forgotten how to open... and if you asked them to please let you in or out they would simply shrug in their frames and point at my stout but demure body as I sit with my legs crossed and stare out of a frosted window covered in tin foil. 

I’ve been living in a 300 square foot apartment shaped like a triangle located in the attic of a factory that manufactures nothing but pink boas and day glow yellow wigs for seven years. During that seven years I have only stepped foot outside of my unit three times. 

The first time was exactly 3 months after moving in. I had run out of Vienna sausages, Gatorade, and parmesan cheese, the staples of any diet consumed by a hermitic transexual linebacker with a fear of people, places, and things. Nouns, as it were, I feared. Not the saying or reading or writing of nouns, no. Tangible nouns. Breathing nouns. Nouns that hate. Nouns that love. Unfamiliar nouns. Right before I reached the end of my Vienna sausage supply, I came across a dented can that was off-brand sitting amongst all of the other truer sausages. A foreigner. An unfamiliar thing. An unfamiliar noun. I flushed it down the toilet. It got stuck. 

I called a plumber on my phone shaped like a football bedazzled with sequins. I barricaded the bathroom door from within my unit and I paid him three thousand dollars by wire transfer to cut into the bathroom from outside of my apartment, fix the problem, and leave without ever having to come through the front door and see me. 

The first time I left this space was exactly 3 months after moving in. I had run out of Vienna sausages, gatorade, and parmesan cheese. I pay a runner a few hundred dollars a month to bring me necessities and leave them outside of my door. When the delivery happens, I clean up and put on the only suit I have. I approach the door, open it about 1 foot, pull the bag in, slam the door shut, take off the suit, get back into my slip and shoulder pads, and go about my existence. The suit? Just in case I’m seen partially through the door when I open it. 

The first time I left my apartment was exactly three months after moving in and the runner hadn’t come. I sat in the corner drenched in a cold sweat dressed in my suit while clutching an empty can of meat. I was starving, weak, weary... famished, fatigued, flustered, forgotten... hungry, frail, panicked..pickle. I was in one. A pickle. 

A pickle sounded consumable and the wig factory conveniently runs a deli at the corner of our building where they sell pickles and red velvet cupcakes and pink boas and day glow yellow wigs. I contemplated a mad dash downstairs but dismissed the idea at the thought of having to climb the stairs upon my return. I live in a walkup... on the second floor. You see my dilemma. My stomach began to churn. It was speaking to me. Quite literally. 

It said, “Heat,” .... my name is Heat .... it said “Heat, eat.” 

To the untrained ear it may have sounded like hot air being twisted in between flesh looking for something to digest but I assure you that time alone with one’s bodily functions allows the ability to hear the words amongst the gurgles. I had become somewhat of a body sound translator. An organ whisperer. 

It makes a slight wrenching noise and I whisper, “Go on, say something.” 

And it said, “Heat,” .... my name is Heat .... it said, “Heat, eat.” 

I listened. I lept from my chair, tuck and rolled toward the door, took a moment to Vogue, grabbed the handle, lifted my leg behind me as I mustered the audacity of hope, and pulled the handle. As I took a step outside, I became dizzy, disoriented, delusional, fucked up. (I hate alliterations that exceed three words.) I was certain I wouldn’t make it another step when suddenly, as in a movie, the door of the apartment across from mine opened slowly. I froze. 

An old woman weighing in at 753 pounds standing 2 and one half foot tall stood in shock wearing a floral moo-moo, a garter belt around her giant flexed bicep, an olive green colored fedora with a peacock feather jutting out the back, and in her hand.... a pickle. We stood silent and panicked for quite some time until she managed a few words as she trembled. 

“You’re wearing a SUIT!”

To which I replied,

“Pickle.”

“Excuse me?”

“PIIICCCCKLE!!!!!!!!”

She reached a pinnacle of panic that was palpable. P’s make you spit. So much so that her garter belt burst at its seam because apparently old fat short women swell as adrenaline courses through their veins. The piece of elastic covered by fabric flew from her arm, hit me in the eye, and sent me flying violently backwards about.. 2 millimeters. In defensive response, I lunged right, then left, then right, then straight at her. Upon the impact of my body against hers, she was catapulted into her apartment and flew out her kitchen window with a shattering of glass. As she retreated with a scream that can only be produced by elderly brittle vocal cords, her pickle flew into the air about 40 feet... we have vaulted ceilings in our hallway.... and came tumbling toward me like a.... torpedo. Like a..... football. I don’t normally catch balls. I’m a linebacker. But this was a pickle, not a ball. I jumped daintily into the air like some finned flying fish, opened my mouth wide, swallowed the pickle whole, ran back into my apartment, slammed the door, took off my suit, put on my slip and shoulder pads, played a game of solitaire because porn gets boring, and took a 20 minute nap. My runner brought my food one hour later. I sent a note the next day requesting promptness. Old fat women shouldn’t die over pickles and empty cans of Vienna sausage. 

That was the first time. The second and third? Teach me to trust you and maybe we’ll talk.

I wasn’t always a transexual linebacker named Heat. I once was a transexual linebacker named Bob. Robert at the start. Bobby when I was younger. Bob at the age when boys names that end with the sound of EEEE transition from being cute to being... fag. Heat when fag went from being cute to being reality. 

I am the son and daughter of a woman who made billions putting together things like computers. I am the son and daughter of a man who made nothing putting together things like alcoholic and punching wife in face. I am the son and daughter of a couple that started content, leveled off in complacency, proceeded in an upward climb toward violence, and ended up murdering one another. They did... murder one another. She smacked him in the face. He punched her in the neck. She stabbed him with a knife in the forearm. He took the knife and stabbed her in the calf muscle because he was on the ground recovering from the forearm wound. She impaled him with her 5 inch heel. He took off her heel and impaled her in the chest just above the heart puncturing a lung. She produced a small golden pistol from the holster built into her braziere and shot him twice in the crotch and then raised the gun and fired two warning shots once it was too late. He ran to the pantry and grabbed a can of Vienna sausage and lunged it at her head and it struck with a thud. Or a pow. She said oww. She took a pipe bomb from her purse, lit the fuse, and held it in her hand until the very moment before explosion and flung it at his body. It erupted at just the right moment and sent preloaded shrapnel across the room and into every part of him....and her. They were laying on the floor twitching and trying to die together in one last attempt at resolution but couldn’t manage united mortality just as they couldn’t manage tantric unified orgasm. 

I watched perched from atop the fridge clutching my football in my left hand and my Barbi Dream House in my right. Yes, the whole dream house went with me everywhere.

TWO

RUNNING LOG ENTRY

Distance: 5 miles

Time: 52:10

Comments: First three miles, fairly easy. Mile four, slight pain in right shin below knee. Mile five, slight pain in left knee as usual. Tired all day. Spent. Not enough carbs/calories? Some pain walking at end of day. Subsided. Overall, challenging but no thoughts of stopping. Manageable. Pay attention to pace. Mile 2-3 are deceptive. Endorphin high causes me to feel like I can safely speed up causing burnout from 3-5. 

Next Run Saturday May 9 (6 miles)

ONE

Finally I'm not running away. 

I'm running towards. 

He's there. 

It's there. 

Everything is there. 

A leisurely stroll on casual legs won't get me there quickly enough. 

And so I run.

------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm running a 1/2 marathon in NYC on August 16th.

I fucking better not fall.  I really better not fucking fall....

But if I do fall, I better fall hardcore so people feel sorry for me and help rather than laugh. Or someone attractive better fall on top of me, kiss my forehead, pull me up, run by my side, cross the finish line with me, take me out for pasta, marry me, and buy me a puppy. That's the only way falling is going to be acceptable. Or if I fall, I better become super thin on impact. Or I better find a grant that is only for people who fall while running 1/2 marathons. Or I better fall on a winning lottery ticket so I can make a difference.

And. There better not be mud to weigh me down and keep from flying. My treadmill doesn't have a mud function so I'm not sure what that would be like. I would assume laborious and erotic.

Do you remember when you hated running? (I'm talking to myself) Yes. Yes, I do. (I'm answering myself) I also remember when I hated almonds and opera. These days are different. I now enjoy running while singing opera and chewing almonds. Maybe I'm looking for inner strength? Super. I think I just want to be thin. No. Well, yes, I do. But no. Maybe I want to be healthy. Absolutely, are you kidding? Maybe I want heaven. There is a point during my run where I reach a place of bliss and inspiration. That feeling doesn't come without the run. No drug I've touched in my life has ever come close. Sure, drugs and alcohol mess me up more but this is pure, uncut, and clean. Which is why there better not be mud. And I better not fall lest my touching the sky be crapped on by my pride.

So. There are things that I want. I want love. I want artistic success measured by my ability to keep on making it. I want health. I want skinny. I want to make a difference. I want to help. Usually I feel as if I'm running from these things I want. I run because I'm not sure I can get them. When I run (in my running shoes), I feel able and ready. I can see the boy I have a crush on reach out to me and be what I need him to be. I can see the grant and fellowship committees reviewing my proposals, standing up together, and literally applauding my words. I can see myself walking down the street not thinking about holding in my stomach. I can see myself raising millions for causes I care so much about.

When I run, I see myself running towards and not away. With each day that I get myself out of bed earlier than I need to and go out to run, I feel that motivation seeping deeper and deeper into my daily life.

I'm realistic. I won't obtain love, artistic success, or ideal body image during the course of one race. BUT. I can and will give to a cause that I've wanted to contribute to for so long but have never been able to financially. The American Cancer Society. I'm running for myself and for them.

I suppose it is possible that I might fall on the perfect man with the winning lottery ticket in his pocket who is also in cahoots with MacArthur and Guggenheim. He might also have a magic pill that will finally give me physical confidence. I'm going to keep that option open come race day.

For now, I'm going to run in pursuit of those things individually.... and I'm going to run for curing cancer. It's a start.

This weeks training schedule:

5/4-  2 miles

5/6-  5 miles

5/9-  6 miles

Strength and non-impact cardio every day not listed except for Friday which is the day before my long run of the week. Just rest. 

I better not fucking fall.

ZERO

I live in New York but live in Phoenix. In July I will live in New York and live in New York. Internship at Ontological Hysteric. I will say more.