(no subject)
I was told that my unstoppable desire to go fast was a boy thing. Being a boy, I didn't know how to argue with that, but seriously, some of my best friends are girls who like to go really fast, down hills, across the plains, on two wheels or four or on the balls of their feet, transferring through the bone and skin into damp socks and rubber soles. My best scar (now faded) was the inherently boy-like scar of running too fast down an eastern washington hill. There's that breaking-free point when you take off and all your energy keeps going, up or down or speeding across the plains, and at some point you land. On the concrete, again, on the other wrist or the first one. It's a good cost. If we could harvest that flight time, grant all the dead drivers and the broken cyclists and moaning, knee-grabbing, ground-rolling skaters just half a second extra flight time, set aside the briefest of moments to realize that you've done it, you've taken off, and the flight to the sun was always, 100% forever, always going to be worth it.
But I'm a boy so I don't know.
Wear a helmet though
But I'm a boy so I don't know.
Wear a helmet though