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Concussed by Ray Printer Friendly

I wrote this longhand in a spiral notebook, using a pencil. I figured that if I was lucid enough when I got home, I would type it and post it. Looks like I was. Hooray!

So I got hit in the head today. Hard. By a big chunk of iron. When it happened, I went, “Uhg,” because that is the standard sound I make when I get hit in the head by things that are exceptionally damaging to my skull and its contents.

That much is true. Everything after that is anyone’s guess.

I don’t really trust my recollection of recent events, is what I’m saying.

The best thing about having no health insurance is that you learn to convince yourself that everything is fine. “It’s fine,” you say, “It’ll be fine. Really. Fine.”

Dizzy? It’ll be fine. Seeing double? That’s okay. Slurred words and stumbling? That’s normal.

You might not realize this, but hundred and four-degree fevers and/or concussions are some of the cheapest ways to party, ever. Unless you die.

Coffins aren’t cheap, or so my princess tells me every time I voice my life-long dream of being one of those guys that hangs pictures on billboards.

Any time I tell her any of my life-long dreams, really.

She lost a lot of faith in my good judgment when I assured her that my marginal leg pain was nothing to worry about, shortly before going on a three month, agony-filled hydrocodone bender because of a botched sciatic nerve. Live and learn, I guess.

But back on track…

Honestly, I don’t know if my current state of mind is due to the head trauma or not. What I know is, I got skull-smashed by a giant iron lever, and my vision went all wacky for a few seconds. Nothing cool like stars or little cartoon birds, though, so I doubt it was all that serious. Just black for a couple seconds, and then everything was cross-eyed blurry for a while, and then it all went back to normal.

Except that since then, I’ve been incredibly tired, and if I look to the right or touch the bump on my head, I almost puke. If I don’t do that, I just feel a little weird, and slightly queasy.

Like I said—a pretty cheap party.

Of course, a real party wouldn’t be taking place in my math class. Probably. This would be the night the teacher hands out a 1040 form, for some reason. I’m not really sure why, because instead of listening, I’ve been writing this.

In my defense, when I look at the handouts she gave us, my vision starts swimming, and I feel a little spew-y.

“You’re taking a book to read?” My princess asked as I was leaving for class.

“Well, yeah. What else am I going to do? Might sit in the front row and read it, just to show her who’s boss.”

“You said you probably made a thirty on the last test.”

“I said I optimistically made a thirty.”

“And you didn’t do your homework.”

“I know that.” I hefted my empty notebook at her to show her we’re on the same page. This is where the homework would be if I’d done it.

“So maybe you should pay attention in class.”

“Good point.”

“I see you’re still taking the book as you walk to the door.”

“Yeah. Love you, bye!”

In case you’re wondering, I didn’t bring my book to class. I didn’t want the teacher distracting me just as I got to the good part.

And yeah, I really did do that bad on my last test. And no, I didn’t do my homework. The thing is, I’ve had a really ahrd time conjuring up the give-a-shit for the last couple of weeks.

I’m tired all the time, and I’ve had things to do with my life that have nothing to do with wasting my time doing something that makes me miserable (a.k.a. math homework).

But that is neither here nor there. We were talking about my alleged brain damage, I believe?

Sitting here, I just got hot. Incredibly hot, where sweat started dripping down my pen as I wrote. Gross, I know. I touch the back of my hand to my forehead, but everything’s sweaty and gross, so I don’t do that again. Shit.

“You okay?” the guy next to me asks.

“I hit my head today,” I tell him.

He looks at me for a few seconds, observing the sweaty forehead and maybe the bump. “Don’t go to sleep tonight,” he tells me.

“I’ll have to stay up drinking to make sure I don’t go into a coma,” I tell him.

He laughs. Then stops laughing. “Are you okay, though?”

“Yeah, this is what fat people do.”

He goes back to his math work. I go back to sweating and mildly hallucinating.

You know the bitch of it? I don’t have the kind of job where I’m supposed to get hit in the head with things. Not anymore. I wear a button-up shirt and dry-clean-only pants. I wear a tie.

Sure, I’m just a glorified delivery boy (not even all that glorified, really), but that’s beside the point. The point is, I should not be getting hit in the head with heavy-ass rods of metal.

But I suppose the real point is that my pencil has started crying and telling me to let go of its penis, and I need to go puke somewhere. So, um, the end.


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