You stare awkwardly at the small stone wall before you. You know you are too fugly and portly to attempt this plight, but walking to the steps is an extra 27-30 feet, and the walking to them would demean a fashion as alienated as looking out-of-place climbing the ledge. A healthy kid would climb this ledge. A cool kid would climb this ledge. So, clenching undersized, sweaty fists you lick your lips (hint of jalapeno), you embark the wall. The final 1 minute and 16 seconds of “Prelude 3.0” plays in your mind and you illusion your motions slowed.
“This is it,” you think. “Either I’m going up this thing, or I’m going down! Fuck it!”
One portly leg lifts from the ground, sealing your fate. For, replacing the leg this late in the choice would depict a self-consciousnesses of aphid attraction. You think of faded sweatpants in value village, but your not sure as to why. Bitter taste.
Your doing it you think. Today I am healthy. Today I am not overweight. Today I am cool. You feel magnetic. Cataclysmic. Unfathomably raw and composed of the pure fabric that twisted the first proto-galaxies of our universe.
You don’t see anyone around, so you think for a slight moment that your are indifferent to holding onto such lasting perfection while still alone, and you feel an odd twitch of a movement made by the left half of your body. Not even sure it happened, for it was so brief, so meagre. But, your certain this awkward muscle reaction… this… this… communist movement… was not an aesthetically pleasing demonstration of grace.
The idea of self repulsion disgusts you as the domestic rumour develops rapidly in your mind.
You are now over the wall.
Your offer now an exaggerated shoulder-strap adjustment of your backpack; and, thus present a gawking belly swing. You try holding your breath to disguise your oxygen deprivation at this particular moment, and you consider how awful it would be to partake in a marathon. This you release yourself from with a jerk of a nod to the right and a small lip twitch.
No one saw anything.
Then you see them as you round the pine tree. A girl, bearing malicious eyes above cheap-lipstick stained buckers. She is with two skinny corn-cobbers in clothing too tight and French looking to stimulate an initial thought of anything other than, “Fucking cunts,” in the deep places of your mind.
Just when you finish conjuring up a false projection of impressing these individuals with so few admirable adjectives describing them, and your oxygen deprived heart puts on his grandfathers WWII helmet and demands “AIR!”
The girl breaks the space between her buckers. You envision your inescapable destruction. Here. Now. Denil. Psycho-hypostatic-episodic-…….psychcosoicialism images flutter on the end of the black-cherry tree too far grown to evade bequeathing its knowledge unto your foreseeable future.
“You guys see that little communist climb that…wall there?”
She then gruffles out something like a bloated laugh mixed with 10% burp of sugar candies and cheap cola and a cigarette (puffed, but not inhaled).
The word communist balks your senses. “Inconceivable,” you utter under your breath. In the darkening world of bewilderment, you stumble over a small root or stone perhaps; that, combined with your already venom-filled nerves, is enough to send you staggering downwards. You focus enough to see a larger rock in your immediate airfield space as your approach the landing enactment finale.
A rare moment, this. A you-tube moment for Tosh.O, but no one has a fucking camera you think. Especially not these fucking French cunts over here.
You feel your face crunch against the rock, your cheek bone surrenders its integrity to the superior substance. You wonder how long before the taste of blood arrives in your broken mouth.
As the last circumstance that your prepared for that morning on the toilet occurs, you embrace the pain associated to your apparent calamity.
“Fuck,” you think. Just, “fuck.”
One of the French cunts pipes up, reminding you of their presence:
“Yo, I just got that on camera!”
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