Art of Seeking

I could walk for hours in the morning. I had nothing better to do, anyway. All the psychos I roomed with were sleeping through their hangovers, I had no school, no job, no money… pretty much nothing but the clothes on my back. Until Jenny showed up and gave me some of her old clothes and even some make- up.

One day Jenny came with me on my morning walk.

The morning in Canoga Park seemed lush to me considering the aridity of the desert I’d spent my entire life in. I’d only seen dew once before. The sky was dawning a periwinkle blue as we walked the miles to the more affluent areas.

I’d asked Jim for some rose cutters, and he actually found some for me. He’d also given me a yellow rose. It was the first flower anyone had ever given me. Too bad I, at 16, wasn’t interested in a depressed ex- biker fifteen years my senior.

I’d been nice anyway and thanked him.

I walked along, picking apricots and peaches from people’s trees, cutting roses when I’d find a bush full of them and figured one or two wouldn’t be missed.

Jenny was taller than me and could get to some of the better fruit.

It was a nice escape. Back “home,” there was an ancient can of beans in the cupboard and an onion in the bottom drawer in the fridge that had grown some long, healthy leaf- like things out of the top. This was the only breakfast we’d get except for the three disgusting Magna cigarettes Deeno had left for us on the coffee table while muttering under his breath about getting sick of us not putting out.

The leisurely walk took us temporarily away from the freaks in the apartment complex and the ones driving down the street, slowing down, and yelling “Ya workin?” even if I was wearing jeans and a t- shirt. They never bothered us when we walked together, or when I had Deeno’s axe with me.

A week later, we had a better- although temporary- alternative.

A bunch of Jenny’s relatives had gone out of the country for a funeral, leaving an empty, furnished apartment in a much nicer neighborhood. Her mom gave her fifty bucks, and we took the bus to the grocery store and got real food. We stayed in the tiny but clean and comfortable apartment for three days. We cooked and cleaned and relaxed while listening to metal on Pirate Radio (an actual station, not real pirate radio), and felt secure without creepy guys and crazy people around. Motley Crue’s “Don’t Go Away Mad” was frequently on the air.

Then we were caught.

They said they wouldn’t have minded if it had just been Jenny, but they really didn’t want that gringa (i.e. me) around. She was lectured in Spanish for a good hour while I nervously packed our stuff.

I was sent down the road in a gray denim skirt and a tank top carrying  all my worldly possessions (a small bag of clothes) in one hand and a six pack of beer in the other that a friend of Jenny’s had left behind. It was a ten mile walk from Reseda back to Canoga Park. I got lots of catcalls, some even from cute guys. But no one offered me a lift. The cops didn’t even stop me.

It was the last time I would see my Jenny.

On our morning walk, the sun hadn’t yet risen.

The Ballad of Jayne by L.A. Guns plays in my head whenever I think about that day.

I clipped a red rose and handed it to my friend. A huge, pink rose on an adjacent bush was ready to drop its petals.

They came off easily in my hands. I lifted them above my head, and let the petals rain down on me.

Jenny smiled. “I’m going to save that picture of you in my mind,” she said. “You’re like a sister to me.”

I miss my Jenny.

When I knocked on the door, it was so flimsy I thought it would fall off its hinges and splinter in pieces on the ground.

We were quickly shown in, past the dining room table stacked high with cases of beer and surrounded by drunk people playing quarters. They were laughing up a storm and barely holding themselves up.

Jenny’s low- cut top was getting a lot of attention. My scrawny frame next to her curvy one went largely ignored, as usual.

We’d been on a beer run with a guy in his 20’s named Steve. He was kind of cute, I guess, with long light brown hair and blue eyes, and was fun to talk to, even if he gave Jenny most of his attention. We’d sat by the pool and had a few wine coolers. I hate wine coolers. Cheerleader beer. It’s never given me a buzz, just kind of a mild headache. Still, the beer on the table wasn’t any more appetizing, so I was glad when someone offered some actual hard liquor. It was rotgut, but hey, I finally got a little head change.

The T.V. blared in the tiny living room. It was a music video, Faith No More’s Epic.

There was nowhere to sit and really nothing to do but watch people. The only person there who I knew was Jenny, and we’d just met Steve that day.

The liquor hit Jenny a lot harder than it hit me.

The three of us were standing in a room adjacent to the bathroom with a couple of sinks and a mirror along one wall. The place was identical to the apartment I’d been staying in with Jim and Deeno- they were all the same on all three levels of the San Fernando Valley complex. When Steve started kissing me, I kind of mentally shrugged. Okay, let’s see where this goes.

Not far. He turned around and started kissing Jenny, who was so drunk she hadn’t noticed him kissing me. Then he turned around and leaned in to kiss me again.

“You slut!” (Actually, she was slurring so badly it came out sounding like “schllut.”) She pushed him and started trying to tell him off and ended up sputtering.

I put my hand on her back. “Come on, let’s go.” We made for the door.

He pulled us back by the backs of our shirts, not ungently.  “Aw, don’t leave! It’ll be okay!”

Jenny started pushing him again. “You schllut!” and some gibberish. I guided her toward the door again. He pulled us back again.

This happened a few more times before I finally got the sputtering Jenny outside, down the stairs, and into Jim and Deeno’s bachelor pad.”What a schlutt!” She was pretty irritated.

I was disappointed. The crowd upstairs had been much cooler. Jim and Deeno’s was full of assholes who cooed at Jenny and sneered at me.

I picked up the axe and went for a walk.

I never used the axe, but when you’re a stick figure girl in L.A., it’s one way to walk the streets unmolested…

Or at least it was in 1989.

The Faith No More video on the television had been the world premiere.

It’s been played a lot on the radio lately, and these memories are back like they’d never gone. Even more crop up about that strange little chapter of my life when I hear Motley Crue’s “Don’t Go Away Mad,” but that one doesn’t get anywhere near the airtime.

It’s funny when I think about it now. Yes, I was irresponsible, immature, and pretty stupid. But when it came down to taking care of friends and keeping ourselves away from the advances of creepy guys in a world completely saturated with them, it didn’t matter if we were a couple of drunk 16- year- olds. We still had our limits and our principles, dammit.

God, I was a fucking moron.

He leaned over and kissed me and said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He had a detailed list of things he’d thrown or broken while frustrated over the past year. I told him I’d long since forgiven him. Particularly as he doesn’t seem to break or throw anything important, and is pretty good with aiming things away from people and other important objects. Well, except for the t.v. that one time, but it was his t.v.

Not that it isn’t really frustrating and irritating for me when he loses his cool, and I think that’s what he was really apologizing for.

He’d been having trouble sleeping. I gave his hands a massage while we talked about other things, like a silly video I’d seen on youtube of some kid trying to be a motivational speaker and failing horribly. “It was one of those “You can do anything if you believe in yourself!” things. He decided to break a board over his head to demonstrate. It only took him 20 or 30 tries…”

“I think they’re taking the wrong approach,” he said of the motivational speakers who encourage people to break things to show their belief in their abilities. “It’s true, you can do amazing things if you believe you can, but not everyone can break boards. I think I’d make a better motivational speaker.”

I told him that he would, but I wouldn’t like it. I can’t stand motivational speakers.

“Why not?”
“Well, I can’t stand preachers, and I can’t stand salespeople. If you cross a preacher with a salesperson, you get a motivational speaker.”

He laughed. “That’s good.”

Of course, he’d probably be a very different kind of motivational speaker. He’s different with people- not fake and plastic or annoyingly demanding like most of the preachers, salespeople, and motivational speakers I’ve known.

Not for the first time, he told me, “I’m so happy you let me be me.”

We’ve both been in several relationships with people who have tried to change us, who wouldn’t let us hang out with friends or would complain about hobbies or music or beliefs or lack of belief. I’ve even had one boyfriend tell me, when I was 18, “Now that you’re my girlfriend you’re going to have to change. First you have to start believing in Jesus Christ.” Yeah… that didn’t last long.

Neither myself nor my husband are very demanding, usually. There have been times when he felt insecure and attempted to discourage me, but we talked it out. As long as important things like rent and bills and food are covered, we don’t care if the other takes off with friends or watches a movie the other doesn’t care for or buys something for themselves or spends hours running around in the canyons with a bunch of hippies. Is that normal? It isn’t in my relationship history. I guess I was just really bad about ending up with control freaks.

I took a communications class once with a girl who complained about her husband’s Dungeons and Dragons gaming. “I’d like to burn his books,” she’d said.

At the time, I was constantly pulling a bottle of vodka away from my drunken boyfriend and having to trip breakers to keep him from downloading porn- he still ended up crashing my computer in spite of my warnings. I’d previously left a four year relationship with a man who cheated on me constantly, and he and all his friends would cover for each other when they’d take off with another woman or go to the strip club. I’d been in relationships that were abusive in every way possible.  And she’s complaining about her husband playing a geeky game??

I just don’t understand that at all. My gaming husband has his own game room full of geeky games and hobbies, and I encourage it.

Control over anyone else has just never been my thing. I hate it when people try to control me.

It’s MY job to control me, and if a man can’t control himself, he isn’t worth my time.

With the exception of the occasional airborne pumpkin, my husband does pretty well with that.

Hey you, about to leave a comment directly or indirectly touting your product or service on my website, with a handy link to your sales blog! Either pay for advertising space, or get the fuck off my page!!

That is all.

(not my feet- my daughter’s)

I tried. I really did. But there’s only so much a human being can take.

I’ve known this guy for at least a decade, mostly as an acquaintance. He was really good friend with my ex- the one who preferred vodka to the tune of a half gallon a day. This is one of the only guys who could keep up with him.

I’ve had the same circle of friends here for about as long, and as he was also an acquaintance of my husband’s, we all started hanging out. We were the only ones who visited him in rehab, and let him come back even after he’d fallen off the wagon and rolled off a cliff.

Things got more and more annoying. The phone calls at all hours, the disrespecting of property. He’d chip in for food and such when he could, but he never took himself seriously and could never figure out where those boundaries were. The calls and texts got more frequent, and he was often in tears and talking about suicide. I talked to him and talked to him, trying to help him, and referred him to professional help and hotlines. But he kept calling. We put up with it for three more years.

(here’s mine)

A few months back, he crashed my computer the night before I had a quiz, causing me to call my professor in a panic and run around desperately from library to friend’s house to school and back trying to retrieve lost data. While I was doing that, he was at my house, scaring the wits out of my daughter with his drunken weirdness while my husband ran around the house and finally outside, trying to get reception on his phone so someone could come and pick the guy up.

When I got home, my daughter was in tears.

I took her for a ride to the store and told Matt that I wanted him GONE by the time I got back. Matt knows that tone.

The man got all emotional and weird and refused to leave. Matt had to physically push him out the door. He finally left- and came back a few hours later asking for bus money.

I didn’t delete him from my friends list on Facebook. We didn’t hear from him at all for a few months, then he started leaving benign little comments. I would respond benignly sometimes.

Then the calls and texts started again. Then they started coming at all hours of the night again.

He left a message telling me that, as often as he hears back from me, it might be the last time I heard from him. I silently called his bluff.

The calls and texts did not stop. Finally, I got a text from him as I sat in class this morning.

“Did you know you have bunnies hopping around in your driveway?”

“Are you stalking me?” I texted back.

He texted again saying he was just in the area and decided to stop by, but noticed our car wasn’t there so he was going to catch the bus.

“I will let you know when stopping by is appropriate,” I sent back.

I texted Matt and told him the issue.

Then I texted my old friend back and told him that I’d tried to be civil, but basically, I’m done.

“I didn’t know you were pissed at me.”

~sigh~

He called when I was in the language lab. He left a message.

I haven’t checked it.

I’ve done my best. I know that when I’m having an emotional time, I can be a persistently annoying little fucker with a few people, and I have a few friends who are the same way with me. So I’m understanding.

But there are a few rules- all centered around respect. You don’t call at all hours. You don’t call incessantly. You don’t refuse to leave when asked. You don’t show up wasted all the time, or damage property, and you don’t scare the children. Among other things. Things that, one would assume, are just common sense.

Maybe I was just too nice for too long.

I hate ending a friendship, and I have no intention of being enemies, but I’m done. I have too much work to do and too much at stake to risk my time, my patience, and my sanity.

This cozy little spot was just a few feet from the trail, down an embankment, and through a lovely patch of rocks and spiders.

If you look very closely, you might see dozens of little potato bugs on the rock my feet are resting on. I tried very hard not to disturb them, although there were a couple of times on this little adventure that one or two were nearly crushed by a clumsy, meandering giant (me). I do my very best not to harm anything, regardless of the fact that nature does not keep the same policy. Well, unless it’s flying directly in my face or in my ear- then it’s going DOWN. Typically, though, I don’t even like to step on ants or move rocks around if it can be helped. There are enough people running around on this earth, smashing and defiling everything in their paths.

Sometimes this policy of mine is a little difficult to maintain, even though it comes so naturally to me. This is because I’m a terrible klutz when I’m dehydrated, tired, or- as per this instance- forced to spend a tad too much time in knee- deep icy water. I’m talking painfully cold. Half an hour or more to recover from eight seconds cold. And I was in it for a good 15 minutes altogether. Why??

A flower.

This flower.

Before heading out, I’d weighed the consequences of my shoes. I’d be spending most of the time on the trail, possibly some time in the creek (I’d stupidly not taken into consideration that the creeks in the valley are warmer than those at higher elevations- duh). I wouldn’t be doing a lot of climbing in this particular canyon (Maple). I’d planned to wear my hiking sandals.

But I’d ended up in a hurry with running errands and had thrown on my clogs instead, and had no time to run home and change my shoes.

This proved a tad disastrous.

I spotted the aforementioned perfect little flower across the creek- or, rather, one almost exactly like it. I worked my way to the end of the boulder and was about to scoot my way to a log when I was almost  jumped by an enormous spider whose home I’d nearly destroyed with my face.

I don’t know how I’d missed the web as I’d been noticing them all over the place all morning in places exactly like this- a branch hanging low over a boulder right by the water.

Options are few when something that large with that many legs is that close to your nose. I could have taken out part of the web by brushing it off the rock and diverting the web away from my face, but the spider would have had to build a new house, and I don’t want that kind of karma.

I jumped into the creek, and instantly regretted it. BRRRR. I stumbled as quickly as I could to the other side of the boulder, climbed out, and tried to recover.

O…kay. so that route is out.

It was then that I glanced upstream and saw this little area where two creeks diverged into one, creating a much more shallow, pebble- strewn pool surrounded by little flowers- including THAT one- that looked easily navigable in clogs which actually make decent river shoes (if not much else). All I had to do was cross the creek upstream a little, where it was only a foot or two deep.

I dunno… said my brain. Come on, said another part of my brain. You’re afraid of a little creek like that? Bwaaak bok bok bok…

I trudged into the cold as quickly as I could. All went well enough for a few minutes. I got out of the deeper water and balanced on pebbles in the stream while happily taking pictures. Bliss, except for the slightly purple toes.

Then the low- battery icon showed up.

I trudged back across the stream to my waiting camera bag, but this time the effects of slightly frozen extremities had caught up with me. I stumbled over a rock and managed to catch myself, but at the expense of a shoe. I watched it float downstream and stop at a little dam- about six feet downstream of the large, angry arachnid.

Walking half- barefoot on sharp pointy rocks with frozen feet is not highly recommended.

I weighed the options. I could go by the embankment around the boulder, avoiding said spider, over rocks and branches and into uncharted territory which may include similar webs as well as similar large angry spiders, but  the creek would be more narrow and more shallow. Or, I could make short work of it, plunge into the icy knee- deep water, retrieve the errant shoe, and galumph back to the safe end of the boulder as quickly as possible.

You’d think I’d take the second, more sensible option, right? You don’t know me very well.

I stopped to change the battery, and walked over the embankment.

Oh, shit, giant spiderweb, OUCH sharp rock… water isn’t any warmer over here, DAMMIT, unstable rock… fuck, another giant web, sorry about that, bug… Damn sharp rock! Ooh, pretty flowers! ~click~

Ouch, rocks… ouch… why, hello, giant, defensive spider. You’ve brought the family.

Okaaay, THAT route is out. Time for plan B.

I worked my way back to the mini waterfall and plunged, stomped to the shoe, scolded and retrieved it, hopped around while forcing it onto my foot, took a picture of that flower…

…and trudged back. This time a branch broke under my foot and I nearly fell all the way in, but I caught my balance.

I was done with this little side trip, and after a brief respite, made my way back to the trail.

Keep in mind, this entire time, my camera strap was around my neck and my camera was in my right hand. No lens cap- it remained in the bag- my lens was not harmed. No living creature was harmed, save for myself.

We (as in me and my models) often say, while on a shoot, that we suffer for our art. This is a pretty good example, only without the posing in very uncomfortable positions for extended periods of time for that perfect shot. More often, I’m out there by myself taking pictures of leaves and flowers and such, as their schedules always seem to work with mine.

As interesting as this little diversion was, I’m very glad I was the only witness to my silliness- except for the spider, the monster dragonfly that nearly dive- bombed me into the water again, and a few hundred bees, wasps, moths, butterflies, potato bugs, and highly amused finches and robins.

I went to yoga today for the first time since the appendectomy.

My muscles resisted with everything they had. My femur and ascetabulum got in a fight over my iliopsoas. My right triceps attempted to pack up and move away from my humerus. But I kept struggling with it, occasionally retreating to child’s pose, as per the normal wuss strategy.

Then Russ (instructor dude and an old friend) said something that just clicked with me. We were in tree, I think, when he said something about remembering the drishti and focusing on the breath. “This is what your really practicing.”

Whoa, went my brain.

You see, anyone who has ever taken a yoga class knows that everyone is worried- no matter what the instructor says- about the poses first and foremost. Some worry about how they look (get over it, everyone looks stupid in yoga at some point)- most worry about posture and if they can touch their toes (I can’t) or why the person in front of them can revolve a triangle better and, my constant fear, “am I doing something wrong?”

But then, Russ enlightened me with that simple phrase. Poses are important, of course, but what you’re really doing is training your brain. Once your brains are working with your body, everything becomes much, much easier.

I don’t think I’d ever been so focused before- well, not since I was in labor. I didn’t need anesthesia once I figured out that focusing on my breathing was all I needed. I think it can work for a lot of people, but if my sister’s experiences are any indication, probably not for everybody.

Now, I’m attempting to get back to my research before something else can come up.

I’m very intrigued by Dr. Klaus’ theory of structural violence that he has detailed in his research on its biological evidence in human remains in Peru. I suspect structural violence is not something that ended with the Conquistadores. I believe it persists to this day, particularly in regard to its effects on indigenous peoples worldwide- and I believe it can be and needs to be studied in subjects affected, the living and the not- so- much.

Apparently I need to narrow it down a bit because I can see this taking off in a billion different directions. I planned to narrow it down to corporations, but I think I need to narrow it down to a single corporation, and I don’t really want to go with the usual subjects (i.e. B.P., Monsanto and Wal- Mart) because they’ve just about become buzzwords.

I think I might research something just a little different, and see what I can find.

I owe a couple of very patient professors a couple of papers, and then there’s one I turned a paper in to at the last possible minute that really made me want to vomit and I’ve a few ideas on how to make it up to him. With my current research, I may be able to kill all three birds with the same stone- I just hope I don’t take myself out, too. I’ve got about three weeks to get all that finished, with no breaks from Spanish class, including four tests and a presentation on the Tarahumara people- in Spanish, of course.

My birthday party was a smashing success, from most points of view. It would have been better for me if I hadn’t felt like shit the whole time, if 90% of the guests had shown up when asked instead of six hours later, and if some really fucking annoying kid called Potato for some reason hadn’t been allowed to take over the mic between Billy Kincade and Delphi Quorum.

A brief statement on my behalf: I know I’m a bit nuts. There are certain triggers that literally make me want to tear my own face off, and one of them is really sucky music. I didn’t want to hurt the kid’s feelings, so I went to the basement and ranted while pacing and flailing my arms for a good five minutes. “Can’t somebody make him stop! Holy shit! He’s been up there whining through his nose for ten fucking minutes, with the most idiotic lyrics possible, in the SAME KEY! For fuck’s sake if you’re going to SUCK can’t you at least do it in a DIFFERENT KEY?!” …And so on.

I got back out to the yard long enough to hear him passionately whining “come on baby baby, not another one night ladyyyy…” before I ran out front and ran around in circles yelling for a minute before running inside to find something to beat my head on and instead being distracted by Blue’s Bud Lime and grenadine concoction.

Three of those and four glasses of pomegranate wine later, and finally getting Potato off the goddamn stage, I felt a bit better.

I told everone the party was from 4- 10, so we could have live music without the cops showing up. About a dozen people showed between 4 and 9, and after the music was over, about 50 or 60 people finally showed up, and they kept showing up until 2 a.m. Most left around 5 in the morning. Matt and Judas stayed up until 7 and slept all day, along with a couple of drunks who spent all day Sunday crashed out on my couch.

Matt had a blast. He grilled all the food and socialized with everybody- he’s really in his element playing host to crowds of people. I am not. After doing my best to avoid Potato, who introduced himself twice and kept trying to talk to me, I crashed out around midnight and woke up at 6:30.

I spent half the day playing in the creek with Mekare.

She took me to meet her favorite tree, and tried to get all the trash out of the creek like she does every time she goes there. People, she’s noticed, are filthy compared to trees and spiders.

I should really be getting back to all that crap on my to- do list, starting with a shower. I promised Matt a massage, and I completely forgot to put dinner in the crock pot, then there’s my homework and, of course, all that research.

She was the one person in most of my classes for massage therapy and generals I got along with best. It’s not easy being a divorced, single mom in an ultra- conservative community, and that’s what we both were at the time.

When we could find babysitters, we’d hit the club and let guys buy us drinks all night. Occasionally she’d force me to do karaoke. “You’ve got to get up there,” she’d beg. “These people suck tonight.”

She wasn’t looking well for a long time, but outside of asking if she was okay, I never pushed it. Then came the phone call.

“They said they’ve been trying to get a hold of me for months. They won’t tell me exactly what’s wrong- they just keep saying all the test results are abnormal. But I can’t afford insurance, so I’m not going in.

A few months before, she’d told me about her uncle.

She’d gone to visit him in the hospital, knowing it wouldn’t be long until he died. “They’re trying to force him to do more chemo. He’s refusing. He knows he’s dying and the treatment is so painful, he’s just ready to go. He just wants the pain to stop.”

The year before, another close family member had died of cancer, and she’d watched in horrified silence as the chemotherapy destroyed the already frail frame of her beloved friend.

When she finally made it to the doctor’s herself, the diagnosis was clear. Cancer.

I asked her what she was going to do.

She shook her head. “I’m not going to the hospital. I’m going to live my life and enjoy it. To hell with chemo and radiation. I’m not going to go through that- I’m just going to live.”

A few weeks later, she had a new boyfriend- the bouncer at the club we used to go to.

They moved in together a few months later. He doted on her.

My own personal life went straight to shit about that time. This is about when I broke up with my boyfriend of four years, ended up homeless, sent the kids to live with my parents for a bit, and tried to get my feet on the ground while some asshole was sabotaging my career to make his jealous girlfriend happy.

I lost contact with my friend.

I still have no idea if she’s happy, if she’s okay, if she’s alive, if she got insurance.

I guess I can always hope for the best.

It was a cold winter afternoon a few years ago when I stumbled over my creative assortment of layered sweaters and coats into the coffee shop for a hot, tasty beverage.

He was the most striking man in the room. He sat by the window near the register, talking to a scraggly gray- haired man, with the most contented smile on his face I had ever seen. A large, heavy- set guy, bald with a tanned complexion, bright, clear eyes, and a story to tell. It was obvious he wanted to tell it to me from the moment my eyes caught the catheter bag and the cane.

He’d been a simple, married, blue collar guy, working at a yard where heavy trucks regularly loaded and unloaded things like reebar and sheet metal. I can’t remember all the details, but he was behind one of the trucks, possibly unloading it, when it slipped into reverse and backed over him.

“The doctor said that even if I lived- and the chances were slim- they were nil I was ever going to walk again. I begged God for my life.”

Apparently God heard him.  It was a long struggle, learning to walk and eat in completely new ways, and there is plenty that will never physically be the same again. But not only did he live, but he walked.

His character took a beating, though. The complications he had to live with for the rest of his life made him miserable. He took it out on everybody. He sat in a chair, complained, yelled, and milked it for all it was worth. “My wife got sick of it and left me. I can’t blame her.”

He was drinking too much and hating life, caught himself contemplating suicide, and finally decided to seek therapy.

He told the therapist his story, about how miserable he was, that he hated everything and just wanted to die.

The man leaned back in his chair and looked at the miserable cripple. “You,” he said, “are the most ungrateful, selfish man I’ve ever met in my life. You aren’t even supposed to be alive, and here you are, walking and talking and taking for granted this life that so many others dream of living, catheter and cane or no. I never want to see you again.”

He left the office, stunned.

He took a mental inventory and thought, holy hell. I am ungrateful. I am selfish. What the hell am I complaining about? I was run over by a semi, and I’m alive!

From that moment on, he never looked back.

He was the happiest, most grateful man I’ve ever met.