When I'm walking & someone is going the same way I race them because the only way I can win races is if they don't know its happening.

Turning left at the end of path to my the doors of my dorm, I adjust the straps on my bulging backpack. I look all the way down the sidewalk and I spot a girl about 50 feet in front of me. I squint through my smudged glasses to size her up. She's about 5' 3" with short legs, wearing booty shorts and flip flops. The way she's staggering down the hill, roughly pulled down by the force of gravity rather than pushing herself with the force of her own legs, reminds me of this episode of some wilderness survival show I saw on Animal Planet where they show how the best thing to do when being chased by a bear is to run downhill because their short legs can't handle the incline. Or maybe it was to hide in a tree. I can't be sure, but I know that my predatory instincts have kicked in as I prepare to chase after easy prey. Actually I like to think My Lebanese lineage gives me a huge advantage on inclined surfaces considering that my people were made for walking up and down dunes all day, but I have no evidence to back that up.

You may question my ethics because I choose to prey on the weak, but thats probably because you don't know what I have to work with. To start with I was cursed with a relentless competitiveness that only reinforces my belief that the universe is a prankster with a twisted sense of humor because the only thing I have to show for it is my Class Klutz trophy. I've also had a lifetime of being picked in gym when the only other kids left were prematurely sweating from the mere idea of exercise and that perpetually scared looking girl who stands completely still in the middle of the court during dodgeball. And to top it all of I've got these gangly legs that betray my every command—the way the look and move makes it seem like I stole them right out from under Bambi before he even taught them how to work right.

After years of overestimating my physical capabilities I've come to accept that I have to rework my approach in order satisfy my competitive nature. If I'm racing someone who has no clue that they are being mercilessly defeated then there's no way I can lose. You may assume that the win is not as satisfying. Your assumption is correct. Its equivalent to when I'm at a restaurant and I order a Coke and the waitress asks me if Pepsi is okay. I just want to stomp my feet, muster up the yellow belt I earned for one year of karate in fifth grade to chop a chair in half, then flip the table over and scream, "Of course its not okay! If you ask for a fries at McDonalds and they offer you leaves of dead grass would you think that was okay?! If you go to the dentist and you're waiting for your complimentary and toy toothbrush and they offer you a root canal instead would you feel like thats okay?! No! Its very not okay at all! Now kindly bring me what I asked for." But I don't because the waitress didn't make the decision to have second rate sewage instead of the liquid form of love and happiness, and no amount of rage at my misfortune will change the circumstances, so I politely smile and tell her a Pepsi will be fine. Its not as good but I take what I can get.

After coming to terms with the fact that my disobedient limbs are probably permanent—and giving up on my attempts to grow muscle by looking in the mirror, clamping my eyes real tight then wishing real hard and hoping when I opened my eyes I'd be checking out a body that just sprint off the pages of Fitness Magazine—I turned to my imagination, the one place where I have complete control of everything. So as I approach the squat girl, unaware that she's now my opponent, I look at the sidewalk cracks rolling swiftly beneath my feet and enjoy the illusion of speed. I hear the "flip-flop" of her flip flops getting louder as I get closer. I appreciate how properly her shoes were named, but I note the superiority of my sensible footwear, my super crispy Nike's that my Mom bought me with the hope that with such nice tennis shoes I would be inspired to work out all the time. I picture each stride as powerful and impressive as Usain Bolt's. The cars that whiz by become cheers from adoring fans, ready to shower me with love and flowers. They are preparing to release dove's at the finish line because they believe in my insane skills so unconditionally. My opponent glances back in my direction. I smell her fear like a shark—or a snake  or whatever animal has the ability to do that. She's got no chance now. I'm three feet away and I'm metaphorically on fire, but I'm sweating as if it was literal. I slow slightly to calmly pass her inches before she reaches the crosswalk to give off an I-dont-even-give-a-fuck-I'm-used-to-winning vibe. The doves fly above me and lift the beauty of my victory high into the heavens as I bask in my glory at the edge of the sidewalk and wait for the traffic to clear. I scoff at the poor soul I left in the dust. "Haha, what a sucker," I brag to myself. I look both ways and see no contender willing to step up and challenge me, so I strut across the street, my chest puffed up because even the air in my lungs feels like its laced with pure, undiluted awesomeness.