One day, I won't be skating. Hopefully, it will be the day after I die. In the meantime, injury is shining a terribly realistic light onto this dark corner of my future. Fuck, this IS my future. I spent the night popping pills and drinking beer on the stoop, well away from my front door, but a marble manny pad/ledge complex with three convenience stores within stumbling range. I vow to be skating again by next weekend. There is nothing at home but childhood internet reruns of simpsons episodes and more pills and beer.
No, that's not true. There are questions like, why does my roommate (fiance) have 14 bottles of personal cleaning product in the shower? Are there really 14 different regions of the body that require independent unique cleaning products? In times of prosperity, I have separate soaps for hair and torso, but I have survived for months at a time on orange scented dishsoap for the whole thang.
I am starting to consider what my first trick back will be. Fuck, it's only been 48 hours....
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