off the deep end

No one wanted to go to Fiji. Of course, only one person wanted to go "totally nuts," but nobody else voted, so that one voter took all the marbles. Any complaints will seems eerily reminiscent of the criticism American democracy faces from a populace that only sends half of its registered voters to the polls. Does this mean I only have two readers?
Who cares, let's go nuts...

My stream of consciousness begins with the hint at the close of the last post.

My forehead is sore and showing signs of a slight bruise. It's an odd place to punch someone, and now Will's left fist is fully aware of just such a fact. He has just reared back to recreatedthe scene from the barn. His miscalculation centers on the disparity between horse neck and human bone. Dad sank his hand into hide, and though I'm no physicist, I know that the force was given a split second to decelerate, a crucial factoid. Will's knuckles met bone, and even his rage at my thieving couldn't stop the throbbing of an immediate cessation of velocity. I couldn't let that poor girl fall prey to such a sorry pick up line.
"Wanna see Pat's mom's butterfly collection?"
She had to be delivered to a better one.
"Wanna hook up?"
Just before the punch, I rolled off the couch and touched nose to floor. Enter blood (stage left). Or, more appropriately, exit blood (nostril right).

Now my nose is bleeding again in the shadow of the Matterhorn. The January air is cold and dry, and my face knows just how to react. Even in college, I still fall prey. Tom can hardly sit by as I slump in front of a pharmacy and press newspaper to speed a clot. Horses draw families towards hotels or restaurants. The very restaurants who pay once to advertise twice. The ink now integrates the pores of my cheeks. "Eat at Heinrich's," I silently say to my fellow tourists. Zermatt is a beautiful Swiss town that does not allow cars. A tragedy that I can't smell the freshest air in Europe through the hockey scores.

The hockey players are all on the bench, and now I am the one skating. It's middle school, and all I can think of is the freedom of solitude. Not from everyone, but certainly from the corruption of my parents. They don't take bribes, but mercilessly siphon any aura of cool from me. Keeping them as far away is a critical step to deceiving any would be mates. I see one, she is sitting on the boards while the dozens of teens skate a lazy, counterclockwise circle around the rink. My strides begin to come quicker, and our eyes meet. Just as I open my mouth to say hello, and announce that my cool is overwhelming, the toe pick in my rented figure skates takes hold of the ice and sends me careening forward onto my face. My parents must still be too close.

Now they aren't close enough. I no longer need them to exist at a distance. I am no longer convinced that acknowledging them will bring an end to my social career. My mother can teach me patience and compassion, and my father can show me wisdom and strength. Give me all of your lessons before the butterflies are eaten by birds, the mountains crumble into the sea, and the ice melts away, leaving the rest of us all swimming for our lives.