Adults need parents
Whose idea was it to allow people free will to make decisions on their own just because they reach a certain age? I ask this question as I sit still in this chair with pain coming from every nook and cranny of my stupid fat body. Why you ask? Because like a fool I thought it would be a great idea to “get some exercise” and “improve my health”.
I stepped into a men’s basketball game with a bunch of 25 year olds like a freaking idiot. And did I take it slow and play an old man’s game? Posting up down low showing off superior foot work while hooking, pulling, and cheating in between baby hooks? Nope. I acted like I was Jordan on the break every chance I got. Actual Jump shots. Not set shots. Full on rise up to peak 2” vertical. Crashing the boards, locking in on defense for 2 hours! Yup, my first time in the gym in 2 years and I thought 2 hours straight was the optimal playing time. Now I physically can’t walk up stairs.
Now to be fair before I walked out the door my wife did tell me not to go too hard and get hurt. But, that sounded like you’re a worthless pussy in my ears. I really needed more of a Father’s touch like “don’t be an idiot” or a Mom’s “be safe”. Ya, know parental advise.
I would like to say this is where my story ends, but no. In all my infinite wisdom I decided the best remedy for such pain is $100 worth of Mexican food and 2 giant ass Margaritas. First of all anyone drinking a Margarita out of the giant plastic slurpie machine at 35 years old knows exactly what’s coming for them. And me personally, I have a finite understanding of the way Mexican passes through my dog shit digestive system. So, on the heals of a full on physical break down I slammed my white doughy body with 48 oz of sugar poison and 10 pounds of diarrhea food.
Here I sit. The chair mentioned at the opening is actually a toilet. My organs are failing me and every muscle I once had has quite literally stopped functioning. My fingers are barely sliding across the keyboard. I’m just poking each letter with an index finger like I didn’t suffer through 8th grade tying lessons with the rubber torture devices Mrs. Rand would slap across the key board as it all slowly fades to black.
I need to make better decisions.
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