Underneath Will Tear You Down

Kind of hard. 
Hard to see. 
When you crawl. 
On your hands and your... hell with it, here's the song itself.

Your humble narrator did it again, folks. Only five days have passed since I've got back to a country where summer is an existing season, not just some kind of myth or cinema lie - even better, I've got back to the city where no less than three of my best friends live within walking distance, wait a moment to see how ironic that is -, and I've already managed to fuck up practically everything. It happened in one short booze-filled moment, a slip on a Tim Burton-ish gate, sudden flash of pain as drunken joy turns into confusion, and here I am, with a pierced sole, the nastiest wound I've ever had, a handful of ruined summer plans and a ton of shame.

I'm gripping crutches in my sweaty palms, craving for the cold touch of a beer can instead. I feel bandages on the bottom of my useless right foot, which is supposed to lie either on a skateboard or buried deep into hot beach sand right now. Bounded to my bed, lying there since forever, I dream about darker days.

It's not the end of the world, really. Encouraging words from experts promise me a quick recovery, maybe three weeks. And underneath all the cynicism and pain I've realized that when the chips are down, there's a lot more helpful people in the world I can count on than I've ever dared to dream before. A comforting thought, in a godforsaken situation like this. I can't remember the last time I felt so much honest gratitude.

Moral of the story? There's three, and they are painfully obvious.

Alcohol makes you do stupid things. But I knew that already. I've had some of my best times, and made some of my worst mistakes thanks to drinking.This accident comes off somewhat special, but only because of its textbook nature. It's the kind of stupid, clichéd thing your parents warn you about all the time, hurting yourself physically. Never a word about hurting others with words and gestures you don't mean.

Alcohol is a strong painkiller. Not directly on your wounds, oh, hell no. And it could easily backfire - Not going into details here, in fear that writing it out would get me so mad that I facepalm myself into a coma.

I don't really have any right to bitch about my life as long as I have 100% usage of my legs. Not being able to walk is probably the worst thing that ever happened to me in the last ten years. Crutches are a pain in the ass, after five minutes of hopping around my left leg gets its share of the misery (heh, Stephen King, anyone?), and oh, Good Ol' Life, Fate, God Or Whatever, isn't it wonderful to live on the fourth floor now, during the heatwave of the decade? I could use an elevator.

Things are happening to me right now, forming, changing me. It doesn't feel like a healing, more like - to be a bit Thomas Harris slash Trent Reznor here - becoming. Getting ready to die with a scar.