Swan Dive

I knew I was in trouble once I realized that my shoe wasn’t really on backwards. I had spent the last twenty minutes, or so, trying to figure out how it was physically possible for my foot to fit in a shoe in that way. I know I have big shoes, but what about the laces? But even after all my attempts to solve this mystery and even though I knew the real reason my shoe looked like it was on backwards, my dumb ass still tried to stand up. I shouldn’t have to say that all I did was make it worse, but I’ll say it anyway because I still can’t believe I actually tried. It was sort of like getting repeatedly bitten by a ravenous beast while getting stabbed with a spoon or a screwdriver all while standing naked and barefoot in a very cold, cold wet place. Maybe not that bad, but it hurt. It hurt a lot. In fact, it hurt so immensely that I could feel myself getting dumber. Suddenly I could feel math equations, phone numbers, song lyrics, names, franticly escaping my pain-flooded brain.

The pain was literally draining away all of my intelligence with each throb. A slap in the face at this point would probably send me into clinical retardation. Well it’s not like I had too much intelligence to lose in the first place. I mean how many intelligent people wake up in the street next to a dumpster, with no shirt on, a patch of hair missing from the top of their head, and their leg turned around backwards. On the bright side, with my leg turned around backwards, it will be easier for me to kick myself in the back of the head for being such an idiot. Hold on, that’s not a good thing. Now I really want to kick myself in the back of the head for even thinking about doing something as stupid as kicking myself in the back of the head.

To add to all my trouble, I have absolutely no recollection of how I got to where ever the hell it is I am right now. I don’t drink anymore after what happened back in March so I know this wasn’t the result of some sort of uncontrollable liver destroying drinking binge, which kind of upsets me more because at least I would have a legitimate excuse. Drunks do all kinds of stupid shit and no matter how ridiculous they act, or how much of an ass they make out of themselves, they can always say something like “Damn I was really wasted last night” and magically, things they should be deathly embarrassed of are simply brushed off.

So what kind of excuse could I come up with? I have never used drugs in my life, and I’m too broke for anyone to want to rob me. I can’t remember a thing. Well I do remember one thing. I remember that I will never go anywhere with that fool Ernest again.

As long as there is breath in my lungs, and sight in my eyes, I will never, ever go anywhere near that guy again. I am almost positive; no I am all the way positive that whatever the reason for me being in this disturbingly awkward situation, he had something or everything to do with it.

I’m a fool for trusting Ernest anyway. My mother always told me not to trust people with one eye because she said you can never tell if they are telling the truth. Momma’s philosophy doesn’t really make too much sense when you think about it, but it is something that always stuck with me since I was young. The only reason why I deal with crazy ass Ernest is because he’s my boy Curtis’ cousin. It’s kind of a “friend of a friend” situation, and he would always be with Curtis whenever I hung with him. But after Curtis moved to Atlanta in the spring, Ernest just assumed that I was his boy too, and he’s been following me around and messing my life up ever since. That guy has some sort of odd, corrupted, version of the Midas touch.

But the truth is that none of that matters to me at this point. I’ll have plenty time to figure out all that preliminary nonsense later. Right now, the priority is to find an old skateboard, or a garbage can, or something else round so I can roll my ass home…