I naively recited the words and phrases to the demographically challenged hoodlum in a wrong place at an okay time. I was walking like I meant business (currently unemployed) to the wine and spirits store. The young man was either unaware or did not care that I seemed to be much older than him. His coworkers or friends,.(or both).were doing thug like work pulling an over-sized looking ladder like apparatus from one side of the platform to the other for no apparent reason. I had an empty white-wine glass that I could use in my hand as a weapon in case I should get into sub-conscious dream-like brawling. So he followed me home. I quickly became intimidated. Yelling back at him repeatedly,. "What are you gay or something! Fucking Homo!,. Why are you following me then"?
I decided somewhere along the parallel timeline universe that presented itself during the nicotine-patch induced mind manifestation that I was somehow severely traumatized by the North Koreans sometime during my mid-to- late twenties. This was when I decided a perfect time for me to showcase my flying skills in the center of the outskirt town community. (the natives must of thought I was so reckless!). And Snow,. Oh yes I cannot forget that everything was code white in the dim heart of the Alaskan pale sun-lit afternoon. With flakes the size of Uranus.
Although I can't help but getting a little sentimental when recalling my life,. as if it meant
something other than its actual signifigance. The truth is that my health has plummited large intervals in my early thirties. I'm not able to run from youthful hoodlums nor fly like I used to. The crashed cars of my past got two dead batteries and gave me nothing but lung cancer from the toxic fumes,. oh yeah,. and also killed a couple close friends.
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