Thursday, March 26, 2009

GGWB'S Here!

If I hadn't gotten kind of gay with my friend Brandon, then I would have been no friend at all. And no, I'm not ashamed of what I did. In fact, I'm proud. Here's what happened last week:

Brandon, my 24 year old pizza manager/womanizer friend, came into work and told us how he had spent the day before in the ER. Why? Oh, you're gonna love this shit!

He was skateboarding on a half-pipe at the skate park and went 7 feet up in the air without the board. When he came down, the board was waiting in an upright position... and went straight up his nuts.

Brandon said that it was news to him that when your nutsack splits open like his did, there is another layer of skin under there, so he didn't get to see his own balls. Damn, that would been cool. He said they stitched him up or something. He also injured his dick, but at least nothing had to be amputated. Here's what I said to him in front of everyone:

"Dude, I wanna see it. I want to see your dick and balls."

All the others guys at work heard me and were like, "Oooohh, that's gay."

I said, "Maybe a little. But if I'm suddenly gay, at least I'm not a fag like you guys. Because you guys are being total fags for not taking sympathy on our dear pal and looking at his junk. I want him to know he's not alone - that I feel his pain. And the only way to feel his pain is to see the injury - which in this case, is on his junk. Excuse me, for being a better friend than you guys."

Brandon smiled at me and said, "Come to my office, I wanna show you my dick!"

And show me his dick he di! He dropped his drawers and I bent down and inspected his shit from about 18 inches away while he navigated his dick and balls while telling the story and pointing out what happened to what. It felt gross, but it was necessary. And it looked really cool.

His left nut was black and blue and had a butterfly band-aid on it. And his dick was black.

I said, "No fucking for you, huh? How 'bout wacking? I can't sleep without unloading something first. Can you still do that?"

He said, "Oh, I wacked it about an hour ago. I just wanted to make sure I didn't jiz blood. I didn't. I'm cool."

And I'm cool for looking at my friend's dick. Not like those fags that were scared of some dude's dick.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Broken Back Part Something

Pokey Pants let me borrow her computer for the week. Thanks Pokey! And thanks for always looking good in those pants!

I'll tell one back-back story that I forgot - if this overall tale actually has retained any chronology to it in the first place. After this one, I'll get to what I think will be the last part of the broke back story - the litigation.

However, today's part deals with 23 days after the accident. I don't know if it will be funny or not. I haven't thought about this part much, you will actually read it (for the most part) as I am remembering it while I type.

On my 16th birthday, May 25th, a lot of dorks were celebrating the birth of their savior. No, not me, I'm talking about the release of the first Star Wars movie. Look it up, we're twins. Here's what happened on May 25th, 1977:

Darth Vader: "Luke, I am your father."
Penny Wriscey: "Roth, I am your mother."

Anyway, on this day in 1993, I didn't get to do the 16th birthday tradition, which was getting my driver's license. Back in the day, when a 16 year old in North Carolina got his/her driver's license - it was fucking on! We didn't have some nanny state saying, "You can't drive after six p.m. You can't drop out of school. You can't leave the state." Oh, fuck no. Once you were sixteen, you could drive your car anywhere all the time. It ruled.

But it sucked for me. I didn't get to have a license, since I already had a broken back. Apparently, you don't get to have both. They said it was because I was unable to turn around to look at merging traffic behind me. I'm sure I would have been hurt, but I was still on codeine. Only now does 2009 Me suddenly feel sorry for 1993 me. But really, who gives a shit. I'm over it. But those five seconds of self-pity I just had while typing that were fun.

So instead of getting a license, my buddy Holton took me out for a birthday dinner at Lotus 28. I love that Chinese food. By the way, I've never slept with a Chinese girl. I've only been involved with Asian girls from countries that the United States has previously gone to war with. Oh man, does that mean I have to bang an Afghani girl now? Shit, they're just not my bag.

So Holton's dad, Ken took us to dinner and we ate up. It was really nice, even if it was a man-date.

On the way home from dinner, it was still sunlight since it was May and the sun was staying out later. As we walked towards the front door, Holton said, "Nah, man. We gotta walk around to the back yard."

I thought this was odd that we were walking this extra long route to get in the house, since I was in a back brace, and Brian was now going to be trekking through my dad's lawn on crutches. (Remember, he ruined his ankle in the front seat of our wreck.) I can't remember what lie he made up to get me to agree, but I did and had no clue.

As we walked towards my screened in porch on the back yard, I started digging boogers out of my nose. (You know, you've just left a public place like a restaurant, where you couldn't pick your nose, and you didn't even realize it until your home and then suddenly you realize you've got all kinds of nasal excavating to do?

Well, while I was digging my nose, I finally looked up and saw about 30 people inside our porch say "Surprise!"

My first ever surprise party! Among the crowd I was my mom, my dad, my sisters, and Leah from the wreck and Kelly and Blank and Nothin' and Ginger! Wait. Ginger?

Yeah, Ginger.

It doesn't surprise you by now. The girl wrecked my spine, killed my chances at a license, and now she was crashing my party. Ironically, the only thing about my surprise party that wasn't a surprise was that Ginger would have the nerve to attend it. I didn't mind. Codeine, God bless you.

The only things I remember about that party, was that I walked into a room and saw my Mom among a crowd bandaging Holton's bloody hand. Apparently, while I was out of the room, Ginger once again bitched about her "shitty new car" and Holton tried to "crutch after her" but was too slow, got mad and punched my brick house on my behalf in some way.

And I also remember me being a piece of shit, because I was in my bedroom making out with -Shit! I forgot the fake name I previously gave the girl from West Virginia who was in the wreck with us. Anyway, I made out with her in my room, and remember her once again stopping my hand from sliding up her thigh in that little velvet green dress she looked so good in. She liked it, but she still stopped it.

Once we went back out to the party, the only girl I liked better than Miss West Virginia showed up. Miss West Virginia suddenly didn't exist: Miss Charleston. I was an ass. I'm sure she cried somewhere that night like girls do. I don't think we were ever involved again. She had sense for a 16 year old girl to say "fuck that guy." I had no sense in my head for always being willing to fuck over that sweet girl. I remember dancing with the girl who showed up in my driveway, not knowing she was only doing it to claim me over Miss West Virginia. You know how girls are. Bitches sometimes. "I don't want him. But I don't want him to want someone else. I like being able to reject him. Let me hurt two people to satisy myself!" (That was the kind of bitch I was referring to. That's not misogynistic - that's someone (several someones) that we all have known in our lives.) It's weird; when you truly feel that you aren't a woman-hater-dude, it allows you to speak freely about those among the prettier half of the population when they deserve it. I could actually justify why I was so favorable to Miss Charleston, but that would ruin a great story. I could write 300 pages on me and Miss Charleston -and I will. It would make a great movie. Let's not spoil it.

The party ended, and so did my chances with Miss West Virginia.

(Ending note: Sorry I haven't spell checked this. Ironically, I am going downtown to a comedy club right now as a benefit for a guy here in town who just fell of a porch and broke his spine this month. I don't know him, but he's some comedian that's friends with my friends at the radio station. Don't worry, I won't mention my broken spine, since I'm walking and he's now a quadropalydgic. I've always wanted to do stand up. Maybe I'll get the balls tonight. Maybe I won't. Sometime this year though, I'm gonna slay that demon, regardless of whether or not I slay the crowd.)

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Stupid Me.

Fried my computer about a week ago. Don't have money to fix it. All I get is a blue screen. I miss writing. I don't have time at work to write. They expect me to write new stories at the newspaper. How dare they!

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Haji Won't Send You To Voice Mail

(I'll finish the broken back story this week. But I have to take a sanity laugh and talk about some funny people I know. You'll laugh at this one, I promise.)

My friends are stupid funny. I love those bastards.

I called my main man American Matt last night. He lives in New Mexico now and spends a lot of time working in Texas, as well. I called him because the UNC game was on and I was pretty sure he was missing being back in North Carolina while watching the game. I don't even like Carolina - I'm a Duke fan. (For those of you that don't know - at least half of all people from North Carolina have a least favorite team... and that team is North Carolina. Fuck Carolina! I hate them. But American Matt loves them. I prefer to pull for that team of Yankees in Durham known as the Duke Blue Devils. (Everyone that attends Duke here in North Carolina is actually from New Jersey, so I really have no idea why a Southerner like me loves them to death, but I do.)

So I called Matt and said, "Let me guess, you're at a sports bar watching the Carolina game that nobody in Texas gives a flying shit about. And I bet you and your brother douchebagged out and put on all your Chapel Hill gear to wear to the bar to annoy people who don't give a shit about some basketball team from North Cackalackee."

He said, "Actually, you're close. We decided to wait until tomorrow's game to dress up like a bunch of Carolina assholes in tar heels jerseys and hats and shit. Everyone here cares about the Baylor game and the Longhorns and shit like that. They don't give a damn about our game that's on the littlest TV in the bar, so we're gonna act like it's the biggest thing ever and scream like hell and make them hate us."

So before I tell you the funny story Matt told me last night about our friend Grayson, let me tell you how American Matt got his name. Me and Greyson knew each other from college radio - only barely, but we had later become good friends working together at a corporate radio company together here in Wilmington. We shared an office and one desk as he worked for the hip hop station and I worked for the country station. We had some good times. (We even fucked doughnuts on a dare. And that was like the 30th craziest thing we ever did.)

One of the best times was when we had interns come in for an introductory meeting in the conference room. The first guy introduced himself as "Matt" and said he was from Canada. The second guy also introduced himself as "Matt" and said he was from Salisbury, North Carolina. Greyson said, "Well, from now on we're referring to this guy as "Canadien Matt" and that guy as "American Matt."

Canadien Matt never showed up again. Beyond that one day at work, he disappeared never to be seen again. After this happened, American Matt said, "Now that Canadien Matt is out of the picture, does that mean I get to go back to just being called regualar old "Matt" again?"

Grayson laughed and said, "Ha ha! You don't know how things work around here! Just cuz Canadien Matt is gone, don't mean shit, boy! You're American Matt for life!"

And for the last three years, he has remained as our good friend, "American Matt."

So last night, when I talked to American Matt while he was out in Texas, he was telling me a funny story about what happened when he talked to Greyson on the phone the other night.

Greyson lives out in Santa Cruz now. He's a rapper. He is amazing. He makes songs that I love in a genre I hate. And he's good not just because he's my friend - he's just good at what he does. He plays in front of hundreds these days. He should be playing in front of thousands. I can't wait 'til his break comes. He deserves it.

So Matt told me that he decided to give Grayson a random call out in Santa Cruz last week and it went down with usual hilarity. Matt said that when Grayson answered the phone and said, "Whattup, American Matt!" - he knew exactly what was going on.

Matt said that he heard an announcer screaming over a crowd on a P.A. system saying "Ladies and Gentleman - here he is! HAJI P!"

Haji P is Grayson's rapper name. Matt said, "Grayson are you currently walking out on stage?"

Greyson matter of factly said, "Yeah. But what's up, my man? How you been?"

Matt said, "I'm good. I was just calling you to shoot the shit since we haven't spoken in a while. But Greyson, if you're walking on stage right now, why did you answer? Go do your show, man!"

Greyson: "Shit man. The show can wait. I don't ever turn down a call from my boy, boy! How the hell have you been? What's new, American Matt?"

Matt: "Dude, you have people screaming for you - go do your show. I can wait."

Grayson: "Oh yeah, I guess you're right. I'll go tear it up. I call you later."

Matt: "Have a good show!"

And that's why I love my friends. They will hold up their own rap concerts just to shoot the shit with each other on the telephone.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Broken Part 15 (Keg Guy To The Rescue. I swear the stories will end in two or three installments.)

About a year after the wreck, I ended up at a keg party in Davidson. This was unusual for two reasons. One: No one ever had keg parties in Davidson. And two: If they did, I sure as hell didn't want to be there with those pricks. And they didn't want me there, either. However, this one was being held at the house of my only female friend from Davidson: "Jacyln."

Me and Jacyln had also known each other since preschool, but both went to different high schools at that time. She went to some private school and I went to Mooresville. Neither one of us went to North Meck like we were supposed to. Man, so many people avoided that schoool like the plague. Jacyln was just like the girl that broke my back -except she was the exact opposite. Huh? They were the same age and they were both from Davidson and they were both intelligent and they were both professors daughters. However, Jacyln didn't act entitled, Jaclyn was sweet, Jaclyn had a great sense of humor, and Jaclyn's parents were hilarious. Her mom was a personality on the Classical music station at the college, and her dad was a French professor who looked like James Taylor. They both loved drinking wine and the dad wasn't above playing a round of "Asshole" with drunken teenagers. They were the first family I ever knew that didn't go to church. (In Davidson, I would dare speculate that most people don't believe in God, but they still think it would be downright unsociable not to go to Sunday services at the DCPC (Davidson College Presbyterian Church) and scoff at all the stuff the preacher says. I think a lot of them looked down on my family because we went to a Baptist church out in the country and actually believed in the God that the preacher spoke of. How crazy were we?) Jacyln's family confused me, because I always heard that if you didn't go to church you were bad people. But they were great people.

So when me and whoever I was with showed up at Jacyln's keg party, we ended up on the back porch waiting for the keg guy to pour our beer for us. Have you ever given much thought to the general character known as "The Keg Guy?"

The Keg Guy is the person who may or may not be throwing the party, but he insists on being the guy sitting at the keg nicely pouring beers into the cups of everyone that approaches the tap. Keg Guys are guys who later run for mayor. Just like guys who run for mayor, keg guys can be in for good or bad reasons. Some guys take the position as keg guy so they can talk to every single girl at the party. They often also do this, so they can talk to every guy at the party. They want to meet the girls for the obvious reasons. They want to meet the men so they can know a few things: So they can know who they want to fight, or maybe so they know who they will later have to stop from starting a fight. Also they get to know which guys have girlfriends, and which guys will be competition, and which guys can be allies in the "War For Pussy!" The reasons for being the Keg Guy are obvious, but most people think it's just a nice guy pouring beers, which it often is - but sometimes it isn't.

In this case it was. I could tell that this guy running the keg was a cool motherfucker. He was a little older than me, maybe 19, and I could tell he was country, probably from Huntersville. I felt like I knew him, but I knew I had never seen him in my life. I must have just known his kind.

So the Keg Guy poured my friends beer and then he got to me. We immediately started chatting me up. He was my kind of redneck. He was funny and friendly and just wanted to have fun, raise hell and see nobody get hurt - although he did reserve the right to hurt someone who deserved it. I could see all this. We were laughing and shooting the shit and having so much. That I even stayed by the keg and kept talking to this guy even after my beer was poured. I just moved to the side and kept chatting with him while he filled up everyone else.

About a minute or two into our conversation, the guy said, "Man, I swear, I feel like I know you! But I know I don't know you!"

I said that I felt the same way, and we felt awkwardly too affectionate for a minute and then went back to just talking about stupid shit, then he interrupted whatever we were talking about.

"Wait! Man, you're gonna think I'm crazy if I'm wrong. But I gotta ask: Were you in a real bad car wreck about a year ago?"

Me: "Yep."

Him: "Over in Huntersville by the school, right?"

Me: "That was me."

Him: "No, shit? I always wondered what happened to you. I can't believe you look as good as you do. Shit, I can't believe you're walking! The name's Eddie Hagar. I pulled your ass out of a ditch one time. Nice to finally meet'cha!"

Me: "Well, this all sounds about right. The name's Roth Wriscey. First off: Thank you. Now fill me in. This all happened during my black out period after the wreck."

Him: "Well, I was driving down that hill and came up on these four people in a wreck. They was four of yall, right? So I pulled over and got out, and you had, somehow, passed out in a ditch. Your friends didn't know what they were doing, and were letting you lay and roll around in some awful positions in that ditch even though they said you were screaming about how bad your back hurt. I've had some medical training, so I knew that I had to get you out of that ditch, and stabilized, so I laid you in the road and kept you down until the paramedics came. Man, I always wondered who you were. What the fuck? I can't believe you're at a keg party being all normal."

Me: Thank you. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I never saw Eddie again. But he was one hell of a keg guy, and from what he tells me, one hell of an amateur emergency worker.

Broken Back Story Part 14 (Sixteen Years of a Head Injury Boiled Down to One Page)

The looming head injury that I had suffered that no one noticed at first, including myself, started becoming more evident about three months after the wreck - once the summer ended and 11th grade began.

A lot of it was funny. I won't bore you with the whole process. But some of the things that happened were things like this:

1. During the first year, my friends could say "Meet me back here in fifteen minutes." When I wouldn't show up, they'd call me at home later in the day all pissed, saying "Why didn't you meet me in fifteen minutes, like you said you would?" And I'd say, "What are you talking about? I haven't seen you today."

2. Writing. I developed a new accidental habit of repeatedly leaving the last letter off of words and the entire last word off of sentences. Oddly, I just realized that once I took up writing as a hobby three years ago and quit hand writing and started doing more typing, I've kind of overcome this.

3. Double negatives. I still haven't, and probably will never heal from this one. If you use a sentence that has two words in it such as "don't" and "not." I have no idea what you mean. I literally have to stop and do the math. For example, if you say, "I don't want you to think I'm not happy with the situation." I have to do the math in my head and say, "OK, He DOESN'T want me to think he ISN'T happy with the situation. OK, that's twominuses, which kind of makes a positive. So he DOES want me to think he IS happy with the situation. So that's good. But only sort of. Why didn't he just say it that way? I wan't to explode my brain now. What were we even talking about anyway? I am now even more confused. (I know everyone has trouble with double negatives at times, but I never had the trouble to that degree until after the wreck. And I've never really conquered it. I read recently that stroke victims often report having this exact problem. I'm glad to know it wasn't just me.)

4. Math. I know they say I didn't hit the part of my brain that does math. But I do know I was great at it. And ever since the wreck, I am frustrated at it.

5. Directions. I get lost going to places I've been a million times. I've had a job delivering pizza in a 4 square mile area for a year and a half. I still get majorly lost at least once a week in places I've seen five thousand times. I also still get lost going to my newspaper job at least twice a month. And it's mostly highway.

6. Sleep. My sleep habits got fucked in 1993. I slept 12 hours a day for the first two years and I've never recovered. Sure, I was a night owl when I was six. But now, I can't turn my brain off or I can't turn it on. I'm either up forever or I sleep forever.

I ended up going to a memory loss clinic in Charlotte about three months after the wreck. It was called the Arnold Palmer Medical Center. I don't know what golf has to do with memory. But I know it only taught me how to cheat at being competent. I guess cheating comes from golf.

I took a lot of expensive tests at the center to conclude that my memory was as bad as was already obvious. (I've had more MRI's and CT scans and EEG's than you'll care to know. More on that later.) I never had amnesia, I just have major trouble comprehending too much new information at once. It's really bizarre for a guy like me to have memory problems, because in a way (I'm not joking), I've always thought I was mildly, mildly retarded or autistic or something - because I was born with the amazing ability to remember details about the stupidest parts of life from many years back. I can tell you multiple details about random days as far back as preschool. Yet, since the wreck, that weird ability was coupled with common situations where I get overwhelmed with not being able to comprehend something that used to be so simple. As a result, I just go stare at the wall alone and think, "Why don't I understand something so simple that used to be so easy?!" I can't explain it any further. Head injuries suck. I do know that I'm way better now than I was the first year, but in some ways I've hit a recovery plateau. And when you're a guy like me, it's hard to deal with these things that make this already eccentric person seem like some sort of different eccentric than my normal weirdness.

The only thing I remember about going to the head injury center for those two years was that they told me that my short term memory was in the 2nd worst percentile. In other words. If you put 100 people in a room and gave us a simple memory task. I was only going to be better than one or two people most of the time. I don't know if retards were included in the sample.

I also remember that I was supposed to go to the Center in Charlotte twice a week. However, a lot of the time, I would get lost driving there. Or (Surprise!) The doctors would call me at home and ask me why I hadn't shown up for my appointment and I'd yell, "OH, NO! I FORGOT!" I bet that happened to those people a lot. All I really learned when I was there was how to fake my way through life to trick myself into making people think I remembered things I really didn't. And I'm still not good at that. Don't get me wrong. If I hadn't told you, and you knew me - you would never suspect I battle the effects of a head injury. But when I tell people, they always get a sense of relief over them and say, "Oh! That makes sense."

I also piss a lot of people off on a daily basis because I am always introducing myself to them, only to hear, "Dude, we've met like three times."

Oh well. Who the fuck cares. I can walk. And I can run and jump now. Even if that usually hurts like shit. I'm not in a wheelchair, so I'm not gonna cry about it. Besides, there are millions of more legit things to bitch about. Have you seen how fucked this economy is?

The next story will be funny. It's about a keg party.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Broken Back Part 13 (Lucky 13)

If I'd have known how much my new back brace was going to make girls love me, I would've taken a car and driven into a tree myself a whole lot sooner. But because I was a dumb teenager, even then I had no idea what fun I was in for.

It started a couple of weeks after the wreck when one girl placed a decorative band-aid onto the chest cover on my back brace. It was a simple white plastic brace that had three horizontal velcro straps that went across my torso. It had two curves that came over each of my non-existent pectoral muscles and a very high ridge in the back that almost sliced into the back of my neck and made me sit in a ridiculously perfect posture. Everyone called me "Posture Man."

I would usually wear a t-shirt under the brace and an unbuttoned button-up shirt outside the brace. I kept it unbuttoned because people stared at me LESS if they could see the brace. If the brace was covered, people would stare at me with looks that said, "Why in the hell is that guy holding himself so perfectly upright. He looks way too confident. Prick!" I could tell that's what they were thinking.

After the first girl decorated the exposed part of my back brace with a band-aid, it seemed that every cute girl in the world would pull a different designer band-aid out of her purse and stick it on me and tell me that her band-aid was the one with the magic healing powers that I needed. I ate this shit up! I won't lie. I fucking loved it! I swear I think girls were going out to the drug store and trying to buy the coolest band-aids for me to one-up the other girls who had grafffitied me with them.

Even though I loved the extra girl-attention, I was still too drugged and immobile to intentionally milk it. Then again, I didn't need to milk it. This brace was a self-milker! The band-aids didn't have the magic power... the brace did! Once school let out for that Summer, that brace I was in made every girl, even the ones who never noticed me before, want to totally make out with me. It was great.

I don't know if it's because girls are just such insanely sympathetic nurturers, or if they just like the thought of an immobile boy that can't run away from them (Like I'd ever want to), but whatever the reason, I kept finding myself on my back in the woods or by a lake begging some new sweet girl to be very careful when they she laid down on top of me and laid some lips on me. That was the only semi-safe way I could make out. Sometimes, I'd take the brace off, and sometimes I wouldn't. Either way, once I laid down, I'd say, "You have to be very still and not move me too much. But I think I can do this." (I always knew I could do it.) It was stupid and risky to my condition, but it was worth it. I think girls enjoyed the extra thrill of thinking they could get me so swept away by them that I would be willing to risk never walking again for them. Man, come to think of it, I WAS stupid!

And I was still a stupid virgin. No boy wants to be a virgin after 12, and I had just turned 16. This sucked!

Then, sometime in June, I had my chance! There was Hawaiian Girl, who I was totally obsessed with. Here's the weird thing: She was from Hawaii. And she looked Hawaiian. But she wasn't a native Hawaiian. Her parents were regular old white people like my family. But for some reason, she had the odd coincidence of having those crazy sexy big hips and legs without being fat, and she had that semi-Asian girl brown hair that was so soft and straight and she was from Hawaii... but not Hawaiian.

One night, when I had my buddy B.S. spending the night, we snuck Hawaiian Girl and her red-headed friend into my living room after my parents went to bed.

At some point in making out with my disabled self, Hawaiian Girl said this to me (without me even asking her)- she said to me: "Roth, I've been thinking about it, and - well, I've never done it before. But I'll let you right now. You know - if you really wanna. It's up to you. I'll do whatever you want. I don't know. It's whatever you think."

And get this. As horny of a 16 year old as I was, and as much as I wanted this girl, and as much as I didn't want to be a virgin, and as much as I thought this felt almost perfect; I gave her an honest answer. I said, "Well, I'm dying to have you. And I've thought about it forever. But you know what. I don't want to do this if you're only doing this because you think that I want to. And I can tell you're only willing to do it because you know I want to. I can tell you're not really ready. So thanks, but let's not. Damn, I can't believe I'm saying this to you. But I couldn't enjoy having you if you weren't also enjoying having me."

Am I the dumbest guy on Earth? In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. But one thing is certain: I am the only 16 year old horny boy in the history of 16 year old horny boys who has ever said and meant exactly what my dumbass had just said to that girl.

But don't feel sorry for me about losing Hawaiian Girl. Three years from then, there would be a story called "Guess Who I Ran Into When I Was Back Home From College On Christmas Break." And that's a great story I'm not going to tell. Besides, you already know how it went now.


Sunday, March 1, 2009

Broken Back Part 12 (The Bad)

Recovering from a broken spine is mostly bad. But some of it's good. Let's do the bad first.

I had to miss two weeks of school in May. Then I forced myself to attend the last two weeks of the year, so I could pass the 10th grade. While missing school was fun, getting an undeserved F in math was not. My teacher thought it was plausible that a guy with 2 B's and an A in the class would suddenly choose to make an F. Screw you, Mrs. Holthouser!

Riding in cars was no fun, either. For one thing, it took a couple of minutes for me to get in the car. And two, I developed a phobia of riding with other people. I would have to stare at the white line the whole time to make sure we weren't running off the road. And three, I could only ride in the car for up to ten minutes at a time before I my legs would turn into a completely dead ache, and I would have to get out on the side of the road and punch the pain away and bring them back to life. My balls would ache, too, but I never punched them.

Wearing the back brace for three months wasn't as bad as you 'd think. The only thing that sucked was that I couldn't bend over. You don't realize how much you drop stuff until you aren't allowed to bend over to pick it up. Try picking a dollar up off the ground without bending your back - you look stupid, and you feel stupid, and it takes forever.

Not being able to exercise sucked, too. Even after the brace came off, after three months, I still had nine more months where I was under orders to live as if I was wearing a brace. My back was still messed up, but my spine had healed back together enough that I could live without the brace as long as I didn't run, jump, or bend. I have always been so damn hyper since I turned twelve, this just killed me. (I was the most boring docile creature for the first 12 years of life. No one knows why the switch happened.) The only ecercise I could do was go the YMCA and shoot flat-footed basketball shots. I remember one time these twelve year-olds were playing on the other side of the court and got mad at me because their ball bounced off the rim and went rolling by me about five feet away. They called me an asshole because I didn't do the polite thing and take a couple of steps over and catch their ball and give it back to them. When I explained to them that I wanted to, but had a broken back and couldn't run, they called me a liar and said a guy with a broken back would be in a back brace and wouldn't be playing ball. I told them that the proof that I did have a broken back was that I wasn't kicking their asses right then and there for calling me an asshole.

Another thing that sucked during those first three months in the brace was that I was not allowed to sleep on my side. I followed orders and slept on my back for three months. I knew this was a healthy habit and promised myself I would keep sleeping that way for the rest of my life. But on the first day the doc told me I could sleep however I wanted again, I went right back to sleeping in the fetal position like a baby. And I've slept that not-so-healthy way ever since.

Another thing that sucked was that I my awesome 16 year old "Michaelangelo's David Abs" that I never appreciated, turned into a gut in those three months of inactivity. I would never get them back. Actually, I have them back - but you can't see them. I can out do anyone on ab exercises to this day, because it keeps my back strong, but you can't see the muscles, because there is a wall of alcohol fat that layers over my hidden chisel. Only I know about the existence of my amazing fat-shielded abs.

Another thing that sucked about my broken back was that I couldn't get my driver's license on my 16th birthday, due to the fact that I couldn't turn around to look at merging traffic behind me. I would have to wait three or four extra months thanks to what that unrepentant girl did to me.

The biggest thing that sucked about my broken back wasn't even evident to me at the time. The back overshadowed the fact that my concussion was more serious than first thought. My parents thought I was just being lazy and letting my mind go because Summer had come and I had no school. And I wasn't aware of how stupid I was, because I was too stupid to know I was stupid. We would later find out it was a pretty serious dent in the front right part of my brain known in layman's terms as "blood on the brain." More on that later.

You know what was good about my pitiful back brace? The effect it had on girls. I had no idea how it was going to turn them all into such suckers. More on that fun story in the next post. Heh, heh. A broken back isn't completely a bad thing when you're trying find some sweet thing to squeeze on.