I can’t believe I did it. Seven straight days of watching grown adults sprint through narrow cobblestone streets, trying not to get gored by half-ton bulls named things like “Destructor” and “Ankle Breaker.” And I watched all of it. On TV. From the safety of my couch, where the only thing chasing me was a relentless need for snacks. By Day 3, I started recognizing specific bulls. By Day 5, I had favorites. By Day 6, I was yelling at the screen like it was the World Cup: “No, Estafeta corner! WHY would you slow down there, Carlos?!” Today’s the last day—thank the fiesta gods. The Miura bulls are running, which apparently is the Pamplona version of a season finale featuring a guest appearance by The Mountain from Game of Thrones. And tonight, thousands will gather with candles for the traditional “Pobre de mí” (“Poor me”) song. Trust me, I’ll be singing along. Poor me, indeed. I haven’t slept past 7:59 AM all week. San Fermín, it’s been wild. Literally. Same time next year? I’ll consider it… if my TV survives. (Mostly trampled by secondhand adrenaline)