MOZ BLOG

I’m writing a blog. This is really cheesy and honestly egocentric to a sickening degree. I’m sitting here on the couch, writing this blog, but yesterday I was sitting on the rug at Matt and Anna’s house talking about how I should start a blog. I brought it up. I’m sitting here on the couch, across from Sam, parallel playing on our laptops.

My nails have grown out longer than usual. I thought about painting them today. I looked at find my friends, to see if anyone could come with me to get a mani-pedi. They’re long enough that they bend a little bit when I shuffle cards, so I was thinking about trimming them down. I’ve really been craving cards, and a card sharks gotta shuffle

I’m standing with hands on my hips, stretching something or other that seems to help a little bit. My right hand is on the door handle, my long nails wrap around the handle that I can’t quite picture actually… I see that knob every single day, it’s in my hand RIGHT NOW what does it LOOK LIKE?! I’m out of door so fast it doesn’t matter. I’m in the parking lot, thank God we avoided the gate. The latch is completely ripped off and the gate is being held closed by a shovel! I’m standing in the parking lot.

I’m running. Not fast, but quicker than normal. Past trees and buildings, some that I know and some that I don’t. I’m running faster now and I’m feeling what HAS to be “the wall” that runners talk about. I have to “get through the wall” or something like that. I’m praying that’s what this is as I push myself just a little faster. I charge forward, hinging at the hips, pressing deep into the ground one foot after the other, and with the final step, I pounce. With the grace of Sprout and the gravitas of Bean (some cats I love), I leap, sprawling out for a belly flop, and plummet.

I’ve jumped, seemingly of a very tall cliff, and I’m falling. The ground is far, and wide, and glorious. It rings out to me; I hear its hymns of praise. Amazed at the immensity of it all, I forgot to breathe. I reach back for the parachute, and grab at the tennis ball behind my right hip. Making contact, I grab a fistful of what I’m certain is tennis ball, and so I yank. The cord comes loose. I’m falling, starfish, terminal velocity, and in my right hand is the pin from a grenade!

I don’t remember putting a grenade in my backpack. So either, I started sleepwalking, or Sam left his grenade in my backpack! Is it wrong that I always find a way to blame him?

Chat: Leave your opinions below — who will bear the moral weight of my death?