Bull-Fighting

" 'Nobody ever lives all their life all the way up except for bull-fighters.' " --Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

It's been a pretty uneventful break so far.

I've barely left my room.

But I have to keep trying to do something so I don't stop and get all angsty and broody.

It's like there's a cloud over my head or something.

I can't imagine why, except for maybe my girlfriend living with her angry, Ohioan ex-boyfriend in O-fucking-hio for an entire fucking week.

But I'm just being a stupid, moody teenager.

Aside from the occasional jump into the shoes of Jake Barnes I haven't done anything.

Nothing.

Can you guys tell I like Hemingway?

This is only the third Hemingway reference in ten posts.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

Boxing Gloves

Being the kind of kid who's been described as "a seven-foot tall, albino Bob Marley" by his friends and relatives, I've never really had any sort of desire to fight, or tackle, or body-slam, or full-nelson, or half-nelson, or arm bar, or punch, or kick...


Well, there's a lot of things.


And maybe that sounds a little girly, and I'm sure that if Hemingway was still around he'd punch me in the gut and call me a sissy, but it's just something that I've never really liked doing, though, at times, I do agree that some people do need to be kicked in the face. Hard.


So, when my friends got out the boxing gloves on Friday night, naturally, I wanted in, and I got punched in the chest so hard I felt it for a whole day.


I'm still sore two days later.


But it was fun to get the shit kicked out of me, even though I was getting the shit kicked out of me.


Does that make sense?


And I'd really like to do it again some time.


Maybe next time I'll actually hit someone.

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