You don't know what you've got 'till it's gone. If ever there was a trite adage about life, that would certainly be at the forefront. Over the past year and a half, I have been reeling myself in from double heartbreak, the onset of epilepsy (albeit minor, thank God), losing a semester of school, getting cut-out of a trust, and having two car accidents.
The first accident can be considered the aforementioned "onset," as one minute I'm heading down the highway rocking out to Elenore by The Turtles, then after a brief period of white flashing light and violent thrashing I found myself sprawled across my front seats - having torn out my Nissan Altima's center console in the process. After a few twitches, I realized I had been in an accident and quickly checked to see if anyone else was involved. Luckily, it was just me and a concrete guardrail. A hispanic gentleman was peering through the window and seemed a bit startled to see me upright; and after I assured him that I was fine, I attempted to drive-off. The car started, but wouldn't move out of first gear.
Inquisitively, I exited the car, only to realize my passenger-side rims (custom anthracite BBS, at that *sigh*) had literally been ground in half. Plus there was the marked frame damage from having collided-with and ultimately sliding down the rail for at least 100 yards before losing forward momentum. For reasons inexplicable, I don't wear a seatbelt. There's no reason I shouldn't have gone through the windshield. I walked away unscathed... and with a shiny new Altima, too. This time I chose black.
Then, a few months later in my new black Nissan, a Lincoln Towncar and I attempted to occupy the same space at the same time while changing lanes. Again, no injuries, except to my car - which is barely over one year old - but now relegated to piece of shit status given my refusal to pay the $1000 deductible to have the front bumper and quarter panel replaced (one of these days I'm just going to take a hammer and attempt popping out the dent... it is plastic, after all). The funny thing is that amidst the damage, my right headlight remained unscathed.
A few days ago, I began packing-up my downtown loft in preparation for a move to a nice, quiet place the suburbs. I've since dropped out of law school, and all job prospects have left me progressively disheartened... as well as teetering on the edge of financial disaster. There I can return to my pre-grad school logistics job (so long as the Somali's quit taking over the vessels) or perhaps get my MBA from The University of Texas via the local "satellite college" and fulfill my (since race car driver and rock star are seemingly out of the equation) dream of being a professor.
As I finish stacking the myriad boxes of CD's I'll likely never listen to again (but absolutely cannot discard, for some reason), temporarily leaving out my LP collection... which I listen to quite frequently (it doesn't make sense to me either)... I begin to pull shut my venetian blinds to block the orange sodium freeway lights and skyscraper beams. Suddenly there's a snap, and I'm laying on the floor half-covered in cheap velour window covering and looking at my left leg lie in a 45 degree angle in a way which God had not designed to be positioned.
"Luckily," this is the 5th time I've dislocated my knee, so I know the drill. In a state of shock and rush of adrenaline, I snap it back into the socket and narrowly avert heaving the Hot and Spicy McChicken from earlier. I don't have health insurance, so I'm unable to see a sports medicine physician in order to have the fluid drained from out of the socket. As with the previous two times, the joint produced an orange-sized mound of fluid. This causes a veritable tear-inducing amount of pressure and naturally, immobility.
So, I sit here, dormant and alone... lamenting to an anonymous group of individuals like a child. But I will persevere.