454

i've had one whole day of true freedom, meaning no school. the weekend sort of counted, but it wasn't as authentic as waking up on a monday morning and staying on the couch with coffee and couric, rather than going to referee the lives of adolescents.

i successfully ran and lifted some poundage and then fed my muscles with a yummy smoothie. my hip hurts though. i think it's broken. or it might just be that the band connecting hip to knee that is totally blown b/c my knee also hurts and won't straighten out. i think it's all gunked up with scar tissue and goo. it hates me b/c i won't stop messing it up, so as a result it has now gotten my hip to join in its ranks against me. me and the battle of my right leg. it's ok, i just feel old.

i remember being in high school, i think the summer after 9th grade, and being at basketball camp, which always sucked b/c the idea of playing basketball from 9 to 9 is not at all intriguing. i was sitting just inside the gym door, waiting my turn to play i guess, and i remember having this very bright conversation with one of my coaches about how i was going to run and lift weights forever and never let my muscles go all slack and blah blah blah. she looked down at me, rolled her eyes, and said yeah right. the fact that i remember this is funny, and the fact that she was right about how freakin hard it can be to make your body do all that stuff it used to is not exactly a refreshing thought. again, it just makes me feel old.

i should rub some flex-all 454 all over my leg and go hang out with the 5am crowd at the ymca or something.

They were lovely and pleasant

Funny things about this picture. 1. The vein in my neck is about to explode. Bam! A mess.
2. Will's eye is blood shot from being seasick for approximately 5 hours. 3. His tongue makes his lip look really swollen and puffy. Poor guy.

Transition

We were 18 changing people

mixed up in 2 bodies,

me with 17 faces and you 1

on Tuesdays,

and on Fridays

you with 16 and me 2.

But that’s no more

than the toast

we eat with jam,

than the coffee

we drink with cream,

the cups we hold

in cold hands

full of unthoughtof words

trying to move, comfortable

within the stairwell

you’d never want

to let go in,

afraid to be finished

while still in transition

from a lower place to higher,

high to low,

and this is me

stealing your idea,

using you for

the 2 empty cups

of your worth.