On falling, and learning my speed limits

I have a funny one. This is great, as it involves Asshole both hurting and embarrassing himself in one deft stroke, and me on speed. This was about four or five years ago.

Asshole and I had volunteered to help bubba Jimsnake and his parents move from OP to the neighborhood of Little Warsaw. Getting stuff out of their old apartment was pretty easy, so no stories there. The fun begins when Asshole and I get to the new place well ahead of Jimsnake and family. We decide to stop over at the local grocery store and get some refreshments, slake our thirst, that kind of thing.

We have to hop a fence to get there, since the fence has no gate to get to the parking spaces. Like I said, Little Warsaw. So I do my little hop over the fence; it can’t be more than three feet high. Asshole, a man who has never been what I would call full-body coordinated, has decided to mimic my casual fence-leap, but to do it one-handed.

He goes for the vault, gets his right foot stuck on the fence, and lands on the asphalt of the alley in a perfect ten faceplant. He hit the cement with the whole front of his body, at the same time. Asshole pancake.

Glorious and expansive was my joy at seeing the whole thing happen, as if in slow motion. Truly, it was a moment that we shared, and I will treasure it forever. Laffs!

So later on, after the move is mostly done and Asshole has left, it’s just me and Jimsnake doing the odds and ends of furniture arrangement. I am totally beat by this point, and yet Jimsnake, who is not quite in the cardio shape I was in at the time, is barely winded. He’s sweaty, but his energy level is way up. So I ask him what is getting him going at such a high pace. He tells me, “Xenadrine.” Now this is before all of those very special episodes of “7th Heaven” or “Will & Grace,” where someone OD’s on Xenadrine and there’s a lesson to be learned. So Jimsnake, a much bigger guy than me who has developed a bit of a tolerance to ephedrine, takes two, and so he thinks I should get two as well. The closest I had ever gotten to speed before this was Sudafed.

In thirty minutes, it hit me like a frying pan to the face. I couldn’t stop moving for five hours. I cleaned his folks’ new place and the old place. When he dropped me off, I cleaned my apartment, raked the leaves outside, made dinner, rearranged the bookshelves, scrubbed the walls, washed the windows, wrote letters to friends, called T-Mac out in CT. I did this in two hours. I could’ve also solved the world’s energy crisis for five minutes by hooking a huge hamster wheel up to a generator and taking a jog, but I was busy contemplating how the only way to communicate with the infinite universe was through music, so I didn’t get around to it.

Like I said, I got fucked up.

When the wifey got home, I had crashed. She found dinner in the oven, the apartment in an immaculate state of cleanliness, and me asleep on the living room floor, with an unfinished note at my hand that stated that dinner was ready and that Jimsnake gave me something to…

I’m pretty sure I just fell where I was laying, because I remember writing the note, but I don’t remember laying down, or much of anything else beyond finding a pen.

But for a moment there, I achieved total consciousness, which is nice.

-Zeepdoggie