I only have one "sex" story that I used to share in public. I was 16 years old and working at the ghetto grocery store that was a few blocks from my parents' house. One winter night around 9 p.m. I was rounding up the last of the shopping carts in the parking lot. This tiny little rusted out piece-of-shit sedan was a rockin'.
We all have our little addictions. Some good, some not so good. For the past decade, I've been hooked on the crack.
The surgeon looked at me with the kind of disgust one saves for making sure the cockroach is dead before you throw it in the trash. "What do you mean it still hurts?" he said. "You had a leaf tear and I smoothed it all out."
One of the fucked-up things about playing recreational tennis is away matches. You have to drive to some other part of town and play on strange courts. And worse, we can't just walk to the Third World bar to enjoy some popcorn and beer with the resident mice -- we are forced to pick a different bar.
Waiting for my slot to get my knee surgery, the surgeon was killing time and hung out at my bedside for a while.
Saturday morning there were 3 cookies left -- the Savage chocolate chip cookies with just the right amount of crack. "Those are for you and your brother," the Bear said. "You figure out how to share them."
I know it probably won't work, but I'm signing up for surgery. I've combined advil and tylenol. I've done the physical therapy, the braces and the weird shots of sugar and bacteria -- or spun out particles of my own blood. Left knee got better. Right knee got worse.
My Fucked-Up Tennis Team is now completely fucked-up in an entirely new way.
Jesus was sitting with him at bar in the Third World Club when the first signs of a metaphorical exoskeleton started to cover the douchebag millennial's body.
I had been told both my knees had tendonitis. It could get better in 2 weeks or 2 years. It didn't