Day Four. What Day?

I don’t know what the hell the guy was thinking. More than likely he just wasn’t. The state of mind that is “not thinking” is something that is common to all of us, even if it does happen to some more than others. One could certainly have asked the question of me 12 years ago when, as an 18-year old I decided that I could indeed break that cinderblock with a forceful twin dragon fist strike and no practice beforehand. It seemed like a good ending for my routine in the breaking contest at the time. Exclusively breaking boards would have been so very ordinary. What was I thinking? The question ran through my head on repeat as I stared at the open fracture on my hand. This was quickly followed by the thought, “Goddamn, it’s really starting to hurt. Am I still standing or am I passed out?”

What was I thinking? In hindsight, the answer is obvious. I wasn’t.

Now, in the wake of what is probably going to be a giant lawsuit and a huge insurance mess, all I can do is wonder what the guy was thinking. I didn’t mean to clip him, but I seriously didn’t think he would actually walk in front of my car as it bore down on him at almost 50 mph. As I reached the point where it was too late to do anything I could finally see that his head was turned in the opposite direction, just staring the wrong way (obviously) down the street as he jaywalked across four lanes of traffic + middle turn lane.

The brain is wildly amazing in its ability to actually think whole thoughts in fractions of a second. Now that I’m sitting at home awaiting multiple unpleasant phone calls from various entities I never wanted to speak with, I’ve been able to pick apart and illuminate what I thought in that split second before the fender made contact with his right side.

Didn’t his mother teach him to look both ways? I guess the answer seems obvious, but that would be shifting blame. His mother may have made monumental efforts to teach the basic lessons of modern life, but perhaps her son-now-crackhead-bum was just a retard off whom all lessons ricocheted in search of more receptive ears. One could ostensibly blame the crack, but I’m also uncomfortable with blaming that which is inanimate by nature. Perhaps he just woke up on the wrong side of the overpass and was too late camping out at the prime panhandling location near the Circle K gas pumps.

Seriously, who the fuck decides to take a leisurely, eyes-closed stroll across five lanes of traffic? Ummmm, crackheads, duh. (I really have to quit this terrible habit of asking the most obvious of questions.)

Here are some odd tidbits about the incident—It was surprising to me that he wasn’t screaming. He just sort of lay on the ground twitching and moaning, eyes all a flutter. Kneeling over him trying to wrack my brain and help while calling 911, I was taken aback by flood of intense and conflicting emotions. I felt horrible and sad because the guy was obviously in terrific pain. His leg was completely askew, and it looked as though he had lost part of his buttcheek. The reason for that, as it turns out, is that his hip was crushed and dislocated. The leg isn’t even worth talking about, and even if I were so inclined I don’t think that I could since the thought of it re-inspires a surge of intense nausea. I was also angry, to the point I wanted to kick him repeatedly for throwing a severe dampener on my recently acquired, new-and-oh-so-cool, location-based joy. As people gathered, some very close and others hanging back, a rush of embarrassment and the need to defend myself also rose up. It wasn’t vehicular assault with malice, it was unintentional vehicular assault with incredulousness.

That THE FUCK was he thinking.

Before? Who knows. After? Something along the lines of “Ouch”, no doubt, but more the extreme version, sponsored by Mountain Dew and shit.

It should all wash out in the end. The cops actually seemed sympathetic to my unfortunate position, and the insurance company hasn’t said “You’re fucked.” Not yet, anyway, and that’s really what is worrying me right now. I can just see myself obsessing about this, finally beginning to get over it after a couple of weeks, and then getting the “You’re fucked” phone call. D.A. takes humanitarian pity on homeless crack addict and decides to press charges on unrepentant guy with home. (I’m already whipping myself into an ulcer-ific frenzy)

My fourth day in the big city and I almost kill a crackhead. I’m all for excitement and high notes, but this is ridiculous.

The Heads Have Landed

The changes over the last month have been so drastic, where should I begin? There’s always the option of a chronological tale, but that’s often much less fun so I’ll regale you with the things that seem most important.

First up….we’re in Phoenix and it is awesome.

We knew it would be fantastic, but now that we are physically present in our new home things are really starting to sink in. It’s like being a kid set loose inside an infinitely wonderful candy store. Guess what I ate last night and the night before? I’ll give you a minute….Done guessing?

Jack in the Box. Wonder of Fast Food Wonders, oh how I missed thee.

While stranded in the Midwest for the last three and a half years there has been nary a whiff of Jack’s over-the-top caloric goodness and now it’s at my fingertips once again—all you can eat, baby. I’m seriously considering filling up one of the bathtubs with Ultimate Double Cheeseburgers and bacon and then commencing to jump in and not surface until I am thoroughly sated (and at least 300 lbs.). I rediscovered old and venerable Jack in the Box wisdom called “Unlocking the Magic” which brought a measure of joy not unlike that which comes with rediscovering a cherished piece of one’s past.

For those not schooled in advanced fast food tactics, I’ll explain.

Although it could conceivably be applied to many different sandwiches, “Unlocking the Magic” is primarily for the Ultimate Cheeseburger or Ultimate Double Cheeseburger aficionado. When you get this beef and cheese delight to your preferred consumption destination, the true fast food warrior does not immediately begin eating; to do so would be heresy in the extreme. This fat ass ambrosia is lovingly crafted and one should take the time to carefully unwrap and admire the thing beforehand. Now, take the beef and cheese loveliness into the palm of your dominant hand, placing the off hand on the top bun. The fingertips of each hand should be pointing toward the opposite elbow. If they aren’t then you need to adjust. Once properly positioned, press down on the top bun with your palm (not too much, you mustn’t damage it!) and rotate in a clockwise motion and back again. Repeat as necessary until the bun is smoothly rotating and all topping are spread evenly. Once complete, enjoy the new addition to your artery blockage.

There is one optional addition to this. After unlocking, I enjoy peeling away the top bun and hitting it up with a bit of sweet-n-sour sauce, it goes well with the copious mayo. Any other additions are at your own risk.

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It’s funny, we’ve gone from a population of 325K to a population of several million and my stress level has never been lower, even while still in the middle of moving and unpacking. At first I didn’t understand, but credit goes to the aforementioned Jack-delicacies for the brain fortification that helped illuminate the reasoning behind this state of affairs.

I finally live somewhere that I don’t have to qualify. I can tell someone where I’m from and not get that bewildered, forehead-crinkle stare that I’ve had to deal with my entire life. The look that says, “I want to ask you where or what the fuck that is, but I’m trying to be polite right now.” Oh God, I’ve always hated that look. No more trying to minimize the shitiness, stupidity, or general backasswardness of my location.

I’m here, I’m gloriously happy, and I’m not going anywhere. Not for a very long time if I can at all help it. Prepare yourself for a newly optimistic and jovial outpouring of stupidity, bitches.

I am so fucking back.