When I Die

Holiday Bummer

You might want to ignore me for the next couple of entries. They'll just take away your holiday cheer. And I don't want that to happen.

Seems like everytime December starts, I'm back in my shell, crying out to anyone who wants to help--knowing there won't really be any answer but crying out anyway.

I played football (soccer) after what seems an eternity (four years actually--yup, almost) last week. I've always been the goalkeeper. My deal is straight. If you want me to play, I'll be the goalkeeper. If not, I'm out. So I played. Our team won, I guess that's the part everyone would want to know first. So yes, our team won. Six outlandish freaks taking on six outlawed freaks in the ultimate showdown of showdowns. And we won. 4-3.

I saved three goals. One was a solid penalty kick and I jumped in the right direction at the right time. The next was an elaborate pass plot and I had to literally grab that ball moments before Charu (a college bloke) slammed his foot right in my face. At the back of my mind, a voice was telling me that your just risking away your shoulder blade. I didn't give a damn--told that voice to go away. It did. The third save was amazing. Charu (yup, same guy) kicked the ball right in the D and to the far left of the post. I couldn't jump, I ran, and I edged the ball away with my toes. Yup, it was my toes.

All miracles stopped after that. I dived for another save and gashed myself a good one on the right leg. I cut myself on the goalpost. It's a metal post, and on one pillar, there's a ragged protrusion that the guys swore wasn't there before the game. I think they're lying. The cut's about six inches long and pretty deep. It runs all the way on the back of my thigh from the knee to the ass. So it was off to the doctors. And it seems it's been a year since my last tetanus shot. So he gave me a good dose of that. Right up my ass. My right asscheek.

I could be blunt and say my right side was dead from the waist down, but in reality it HURT. Damn right. I didn't sleep that night. The thing is, injections seem to spasm my muscles. And sprain 'em. More than the cut, my ass hurt. I had to lie on that bed up on one side for that night.

And when my ass stopped hurting, the cut woke up said, "hello, buddy, now it's mah turn." Walking hurts. Sitting hurts. Shitting hurts. Everything hurts. But I'm sitting and typing this entry anyway. It's not the first time I've hurt like hell.

It's funny. Yup, laugh if you wan't. You won't be the first to laugh at my life. I laugh at it all the time. It's what's kept me alive all the time, I guess.

So I spent pretty much all of last week at home. I wrote a story for a contest. I'm not sure if that story follows the contest prompt to a Zee, but it's a nice story, I think.

Brrr, I don't wanna talk about mah writing. That's surely a sign of me becoming bloated full of the notion that I'm a writer. I ain't. Never have been. I'm a reader. Honest to heart.

Read Chuck Palahniuk's 'Choke'.

And let me give another one of my little peppers: don't ever read Chuck if you still have a lot of books to read. Don't read him before you've read everything you've always wanted to. So if there are nine Stephen King books and three Peter Straub books and four Asimov books you still want to read, go read them first. Then come to Chuck.
         This guy will freak you out. Nothing's the same once you've read Chuck. His books burn up your mind. Burn a hole in your life.

Just got a letter from Ronnie (imagine, an actual handwritten letter. By post). She says she's fine. She also says there's something bothering her and she wonders if she could come by over here or myself and Sonya could go over there. I wish I could right now. But I can't even move my bloody leg without wincing. And there's the usual Love you, Bye, and below it, a typical Ronnie Marsh PS: See ya on your birthday!

Ronnie. Man, at one time (the time when every guy has a crush on every other girl he knows--strike that and make it every woman he knows; including the class teacher, the maid, your mom--that's someone you have a crush on all your life, I guess) I was sure I was going to fall for this girl. Ha, and if she reads this she'll bang my ass upside down. Just kidding, though. That month, I had similar thoughts about Sonya and Nisha and a zillion other girls. All this of course, happened before a certain Amy stepped into my wavelength.

Shit. Forget that. So I've been at home and I did a couple of things apart from reading that book and cursing my leg. I played my guitar. It hurt to sit up straight, but I did. Did it for three hours straight. Did it feel good? Bet your bum it did.

Amazing part? I don't even remember what I strummed on the guitar. Maybe it was the same tune over and over again. I just don't remember. But I know that Shalu, my three-year-old neighbour (cute as a kitten) came by and sat on my bed and heard me play. And she asked me to do it again once I stopped. So I guess it must've been good.

My fingers are troubling me though. Ever heard of teenage arthritis? Well, it seems that since I was born premature, my bones are weak. And I'm sure granny's gifts haven't made it any easier on them poor things.

Why, typing for more than an hour straight makes me want to hang my fingers up along the laundry line. Stick them up into deep freeze. They're hot and cold at the same time.

Ash called. She's another one of the few nice people I've known. Wishes me well. So did the bloke from UK.

What else? Dad called up. Talked to him. Things haven't been great with mom and dad lately. And the result? I get to hear both sides of the story after an argument. Mom says she's right; pop says he is. And both want me to say, "yup, you're right."

Let me tell you one thing: never make the mistake of being an ONLY child. Make sure you pester your parents into giving you a brother or a sis. Siblings may piss you off at times, but mostly, they're a blessing.

Let's stop right here.