Day 2:
Well, this isn't going to be as easy as I imagined.
My goal was to wake up by nine, work out on the treadmill my mom bought a few years back, and lay out for a little while. It's now 12:30. I woke up fifteen minutes ago. My phone alarm was shut off and ignored in the five seconds I was awake the first time. The treadmill looks like a demon and it's raining outside. Scratch the laying out. Even my lazy ass could have managed that much if it wasn't for the torrents of water the sky has decided to pour down. And the jogging? Yeah. This looks promising. I haven't worked out in years, honestly. How the hell do you think I'll fare on this thing? I give myself five minutes before I'm wheezing and near tears because of the stitches in my sides. Thinking about Neil running three miles at six every morning makes me feel like such a pansy. That's what they do in drum core. Three miles every morning, and sixteen-hour-a-day practices. They try to kill you. No wonder he dropped twenty pounds in three months the last time he did it.
Actually, if I recall correctly, drum cores have killed people before. He told me about a time back in the 1980's when some kid was marching his final performance of the season and his heart exploded. On the field. He just dropped dead. His heart fucking exploded. That sounds lovely, doesn't it? You should have seen my face when Neil told me this. My mouth was agape, my eyes were wide and frozen. And what did he do? He just laughed. And then he told me about a boy last year who marched with a fractured leg, only to have it completely snap in half on the field. Comforting thoughts. He's not the only one going to torture himself this summer, no. Charles is going, too. They're not marching for the same drum core, but honestly I'm more worried about Charles than Neil. Both may be nerds, but Charles isn't the most coordinated and safe person I know. Charles also needs an inhaler. Hence my concern. Neil is a black belt; a bit awkward, yeah. But he's got coordination, endurance, reflexes, ect. down. Yes, he's a nerd, but a skilled nerd.
Charles is just Charles. Charles, is fucked. No amount of first-person shooter skills are going to save him or help him in any way. Charles is the gay best friend I won't get to rant to for three months; the guy who finds it amusing when my feminine side comes out and I get nervous, blush, and start worrying over a boy. The only one who's really seen my "girlie" side in over two years. Well, the only one who knows he's seen it. Neil drew it out; he faced it whenever I saw him; he just doesn't know it. I may rough-house with him, I may maintain my coarse language, but he's the only one who gets to see me break down. He's the only one I can't keep it hidden from. It's so annoying, and it's just proof of the dependence I dumped on him after Duke and I were over. After I'd shut everyone out and held a calm,
Well, this isn't going to be as easy as I imagined.
My goal was to wake up by nine, work out on the treadmill my mom bought a few years back, and lay out for a little while. It's now 12:30. I woke up fifteen minutes ago. My phone alarm was shut off and ignored in the five seconds I was awake the first time. The treadmill looks like a demon and it's raining outside. Scratch the laying out. Even my lazy ass could have managed that much if it wasn't for the torrents of water the sky has decided to pour down. And the jogging? Yeah. This looks promising. I haven't worked out in years, honestly. How the hell do you think I'll fare on this thing? I give myself five minutes before I'm wheezing and near tears because of the stitches in my sides. Thinking about Neil running three miles at six every morning makes me feel like such a pansy. That's what they do in drum core. Three miles every morning, and sixteen-hour-a-day practices. They try to kill you. No wonder he dropped twenty pounds in three months the last time he did it.
Actually, if I recall correctly, drum cores have killed people before. He told me about a time back in the 1980's when some kid was marching his final performance of the season and his heart exploded. On the field. He just dropped dead. His heart fucking exploded. That sounds lovely, doesn't it? You should have seen my face when Neil told me this. My mouth was agape, my eyes were wide and frozen. And what did he do? He just laughed. And then he told me about a boy last year who marched with a fractured leg, only to have it completely snap in half on the field. Comforting thoughts. He's not the only one going to torture himself this summer, no. Charles is going, too. They're not marching for the same drum core, but honestly I'm more worried about Charles than Neil. Both may be nerds, but Charles isn't the most coordinated and safe person I know. Charles also needs an inhaler. Hence my concern. Neil is a black belt; a bit awkward, yeah. But he's got coordination, endurance, reflexes, ect. down. Yes, he's a nerd, but a skilled nerd.
Charles is just Charles. Charles, is fucked. No amount of first-person shooter skills are going to save him or help him in any way. Charles is the gay best friend I won't get to rant to for three months; the guy who finds it amusing when my feminine side comes out and I get nervous, blush, and start worrying over a boy. The only one who's really seen my "girlie" side in over two years. Well, the only one who knows he's seen it. Neil drew it out; he faced it whenever I saw him; he just doesn't know it. I may rough-house with him, I may maintain my coarse language, but he's the only one who gets to see me break down. He's the only one I can't keep it hidden from. It's so annoying, and it's just proof of the dependence I dumped on him after Duke and I were over. After I'd shut everyone out and held a calm,
