knapsack, backpack. and she took some rope.
Lately, I've been asked a lot of questions about my arm. Usually my answer involves the words 'broken', 'snowboarding', 'surgery', and 'vermont.' Sometimes the response is sympathetic, sometimes it reduces my injury to a summation of character: well at least you were doing something cool: you snowboard, and broke your arm = you must have been
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i still hate when my parents give me advice, or tell it like it is. i generally yell at them to mind their own business-i'm an adult and can deal with my problems as such.
but generally, usually not too long following the argument, i don't complete something, or i screw something up. and i kick myself for not listening to them.
maybe its better that i make my own mistakes, but i have to admit, with some embarrassment, that they're usually right.
the point of that overly-long story was:: i'm with ya. i know what you mean aaaaaaaaaand i hope your arm feels better.
hey visit me if you ever get the chance. i want to play with you its been far too long. ok? ok deal.
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Ironic.
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