Black Out of order

It's one thing to brag about having half-a-dozen concussions. AS IN MAJOR HITS TO THE HEAD, BRAIN RATTLING BLOODY NOSE BRUISES AND EAR BLEEDS AND SUCH. It's a whole 'nother thing to live with. Especially if one is not Troy Aikman or Steve Young.

After an incident this past Friday, I had to be cut out of my wetsuit Sunday. Lost a $400 wetsuit. But hey, at least I gained a few more seconds of consciousness.

Whoop.

Blacked out in the rip tide. Slammed onto the sea floor. Washed up ashore. 

Can I please be dead again?

Please?

It was so nice and peaceful there. When they woke me, it was all chaos and emergency vehicles and sand and shiny red flashing lights and police and people who professed to know CPR. I was scared but didn't care anymore. It wasn't a cardio event, anyway. It was more akin to an over zealous brain.

And the emergency paramedic scissor. Fuck that shiny sharpware. It sliced through a $400 wetsuit without a thought and I had no recourse. Not conscionable, anyway. Whatever. I already had a tire patch on the elbow. Fuck. Don't get me wrong-- I hate losing the $400, but it was a nice 2-year old suit. I had bonded with it. Bought it the day after CG and I saw that blind dude sing those flowery songs. Yes, I was so bored during the Andrea Boccelli-sunglasses-chick flick concert that I planned out an entire under-ocean wardrobe before the second song.

And now it's gone. They cut me out of it. Put my arm in a sling. (Shoulder in need of socket...My shoulder feels like it's grinding on broken glass and gravel. Serves me right, I guess. For all the pain in the shoulder, the hand is numb. Go figure!)

I think if given a choice, I'd prefer purgatory. Less ass to kiss. But that would be redundant. My life is already purgatory defined. I tried to make it better a month or so ago, but it didn't take. The situation called for an upgrade and did warrant a little tidy-ness for her visit.

Too bad it snowed. Seriously. It screwed up the process of our unfolding.

Her being someone yet to see the space where I dwell and sleep. Her being the someone who's dwelling and sleeping space I've since shared.

I think I accumulate concussions at the same rate I burn bridges.

Screaming sirens, strobing, beaming lights and stretchers and stainless steel and cotton and bleep-bleep noises and aseptic surfaces and IVs and fervently committed ER techs make being in need of any degree of care suck. 

At least my attitude toward cops has changed. With all my history (read: record), they were cool, if not downright rooting for me to live. 

The paradox lies in the fact that I hate attention.

Bye.