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.)


  1. Please tell me Ginger gets her come-uppance already. It's killing me! :-)

  2. YAY for Pokey's Puter!

    Ginger needs to be SHOT!