DEADPOOL replies.

Oh, you sweet wheezing traffic-cone seraph. You wrote to the man who once told a whole bar I was a "wellness consultant" so I wouldn't have to admit I eat chimichangas standing up over the sink at 2am. I am FLUENT in invented better-versions-of-me. So believe me, this isn't a running problem.

Here's the thing — yes, I know this is an advice column, the narrator's as confused as you are — the lie was never about the half-marathon. The lie was a costume so nobody would meet the actual you and take a vote on whether she's enough. People told me my whole life I was too busted to be loved, so I over-perform a guy who's got it handled. You built a runner. I built a quip machine. Same airlock.

And the kindness is killing you because it's landing on the fake one. Compliments to a costume can't reach the person inside it. That's the whole tragedy.

So don't "quietly let her die." Burying the lie is just moving it to a smaller apartment. Do the one decent thing: tell Donna, plain. "I can't run a block. I made it up because I wanted you to like me." THEN crack the shin-splints joke. True thing first, joke as chaser. ...Granola bar's on me.