You wanna be a big time player? It's not to be...

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Shit, I've really got to work on this schedule thing. Show some commitment, something.

So I'm sitting here, dressed in the finest of fineries, at least on my end of the spectrum, feeling yet again just how annoying this damn brace is. I've got four three more days to go until I walk into the doc's nice and early and have them tell me everything's better'n best. I'll come home, crack open the first beer in over a month, and take a shower.

And I'll stand under the shower head and just let the water pour over me, soaking my hair, my face. I'll pay attention to every movement, wondering if one wrong twist is going to send me back a month, a year, maybe two. And I'll turn around for a few minutes and feel the water wash away at the small of my back, something I haven't felt in a while.

I have washed my ass, tyvm, it's just that these waterproof bandages are just that.

I'll get out, towel off, shave, brush my teeth, throw on some deodorant, fix my hair, and then go to my room. I'll see how much the swelling has gone down since I first got out of the hospital. I'll touch the scar gingerly at first, seeing if I can feel any scabs, any threads from the sutures, anything at all. I'll press a little more forcefully around the scar, seeing if I can find anything at all.

It's truly amazing what nothing feels like. I can tell for short moments when I lay down in bed, stripped of my brace, stripped of clothes. I lay back and feel, nothing. Not the usual discomfort. Not the usual stress telling me that I can't lay this way or that. But I'll still sleep on my back. Fear.

After I find nothing wrong, I'll throw on my clothes, feeling a shirt loose against my skin for the first time in ages. The coolness of it, the way it moves with my bad, the sliding over my skin. And I'll worry. As much as I hate this brace, it keeps me safe. It makes me feel secure in my movements. It keeps instinctual momentum in check.

And I'll grab my book bag, and my camera, my cigarettes, lighter, keys and phone, and walk to class. carefully measuring every step. Everything that can go wrong will be running through my mind.

But it'll be all right.

I won't be hooking it through the slotted chairs in my classes anymore.

It won't be slipping under the waist of my pants when I stand back up.

I won't sweat profusely from the tightness.

I won't be afraid to stretch.

So it'll all be good.

And then I'll get drunk.

So it'll all be better.

So that's pretty much the plan. And wow, only 15 minutes in. I'm really starting to worry about content, but maybe I shouldn't at the moment. I'll take it on faith that you have actually read up until this point and wil continue to do so.

I want to make something useful out of this. There's always hope that I'll be reading through this in a weekmonthyeardecade and find a line that just resonates with something in my head. Maybe help me formulate some sort of plot worth mention. It's kind of odd how things like that jump out at you now and then, harnessing your mind and riding it like a wild bull for those sweet, victorious 8 seconds.

I seriously cannot wait to run again. To move.

Colin asked me if I was climbing Saturday. I wish I could. I would love nothing more than to tear up my hands and knuckles against the sandpaper of the wall. To feel my joints give a little bit as I press up to the next hold, or to feel my tendons on the verge of popping as I pull my feet to the wall.

To slide throw the grass on my knees, fingers still fluttering against the trigger and sending paint down range. To hear the 'thonk' of my body smack into a bunker, popping out the far side, railing down the back man in the can and hosing the guy diving for the snake. Circling and silent, but with so much fucking adrenaline every ragged breath sounds like a scream inside of my mask.

I get way too excited when I know I'm going to pop around the next can and am going to see the mid guy crouched, snapping at my back man, and just be able to lay one right on his ass. No trigger walking, no bunkering, no hesitation, just a nice little stroll out in the open on a sunny day and casually popping someone like it's no big thing.

My snowboard calls to me from the closet, protecting it's base from the sun and chemicals, still waxed and tuned from the last season, but needing a brush, new wax, new edges. I'm trying to put it off until after thanksgiving to bring it out, lay it across some books, and really show it some care. Even then it'll be a month before I can use it, before I get to hear the quick, constant flow underneath my feet.

In the best of times, it sounds like car tires rolling through a slightly misted road, spraying up water behind you, and just the ever rolling shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh as your nose begins to freeze, even behind the fleece that covers your face.

In the worst of times it sounds like a skateboard, harsh remarks mutter out at every turn, sounding like the ceramic wheels rolling over wood and concrete. But that's when you have to put your trust in the metal, letting it dig into the ice. It digs deep grooves and slices open the surface to reveal the ungroomed slopes below.

Christ does it feel great when the wind curls in through the vents of your goggles and laps at the sides of your eyes, bringing cold, saltless tears to your cheeks. But you don't want to slow down to make it stop. You want to keep going, to push it right up to the limit. You want to hit that perfect spot of powder where your board doesn't make anymore sounds. Your feet buried in 4" of powder, and still there's feet of snow below you. But there's just silence and a white mist billowing up your knees as you glide on, leaning back to keep the toe up.

It feels like perpetual motion.

Until the toe goes down.

And your heel comes up.

And your face goes down.

And your legs come up.

And you laugh, wrecking your face at 35 mph, because you didn't feel a damn thing.

And to walk endlessly, to be able to go see things, braving the cold and the heat, the water and the rain. No more stopping to stretch every 5 minutes. No taking a seat because you simply can't move your hips anymore without that dagger ripping up the back of your leg, swiveling across your lumbar, and up to your brain.

To drive without frequent shifting. Being able to enjoy the passing scenery again. I can only hope.

Not being so useless again will be amazing.
Not feeling useless will be even better.

So, yeah, that's about it.