Lukowrites

I was watching this video (link below) just now about exercise. The guy is like "discipline isn't central to fitness, in fact it isn't even totally necessary. Treat fitness like you're chasing a high, and you'll look forward to it every day."

About two (or is it 3? 4???) months ago I stopped working out to focus on smoking weed. Not the most healthy substitute, but the first joint after months of not smoking was a FAR more enjoyable a high than the biggest pump I ever achieved. I was miserable at the time, and at the height of my fitness.

I guess I stopped because it felt like I was punishing my body harder and harder, for diminishing returns. While you do increase in energy the more you do it, and I was enjoying the rush after a workout, it wasn't enough motivation to keep me going. My initial goals were to look good, and build my fitness to the point I could compete in sports. I achieved both of those goals, but I was never content or proud of them, it wasn't enough, I needed higher PR's, more tone, more definition, etc etc, growing more discontent as I obsessed over results. I worked out most days, eventually doing it daily. Pushing PR's, planning routines for optimal recovery, diet analysis, perfecting and building exercise routines, taking selfies and analysing growth, all of this is extremely consuming. And it can get boring, especially if you're not sure of how to change things up. I'd built a routine that worked for me, got results, made me extremely tired and sore, but it grew stale. I lacked the ingenuity or motivation to change, and after time, I couldn't muster up the drive to go out and exercise anymore, to eat eggs and tuna, to push out that last rep. I was bored.

However something so euphoric in the initial hit, like smoking weed, can become stale too. I've given up weed again for now, lowering my tolerance, and I'm getting the itch to exercise again, the energy is back. The trick I'm aiming for this time is to learn to keep things fresh and interesting. This requires not only a knowledge of what works, but multiple variations of what works, chasing the high by inhibiting my tolerance to particular exercises and foods.

My plan is to attain fitness junky status through experimentation on what I enjoy the most, and focus on those before all else, results being secondary. Like smoking weed, if you play the same games and listen to the same music while high, you're probably gonna learn to hate it. Variety is the spice of life.

Same taste, different package! Playing in the sandbox, sometimes you get the urge to eat the dirt. I think it's ok in moderation. Anyway, we're back folks. Straight from the oubliette comes the voice you're dying to hear, it's the one and only it's me. Brain decided to switch to ON mode so here we are. Ego depletion and so forth. Let's get right into it.

I watched the movie Don Verdean last night. There was something about the pacing that inspired me. Like Bukowski, the idea I think with this movie is that every scene and sentence is interesting as a standalone piece, regardless of how it fits into the overall plot. Bukowski called it the JUICE. Often times people struggle with a lack of familiarity in their stories, the formulaic shit people are groomed to watch and read from infancy is what sells, same with pandering to entrenched beliefs. An easy to follow act 1/2/3. Music, dialogue, and camerawork that tells you how to think, that forces a narrative. Snarky clapbacks and quips, inclusivity, explosions, violence, swearing, drugs, food, rainbow squishy ASMR slime, sexy sex, ring the bell, salivate, stimulate. I think this is why people generally lack the patience for movies or stories that don't lead to big satisfying conclusions that scratch the itch they've needlessly let intensify. Dan Brown said that story writing comes with a promise of a satisfying end, that you and the reader sign a contract that states that if you give me your attention, I must submit to your expectations of what constitutes a good story (basically equates subversion with cuckoldry). I disagree, it's this handholding bullshit that narrows our imaginations. True, you shouldn't have to contend with a springed spider jumping out at you in every book, but you shouldn't let your assumptions get in the way of an experience that will likely broaden your horizons more than something formulaic will.

Nothing motivates me to write more than other writers (because they are shit). - Bukowski

Don Verdean's a comedy made by the guy who did Napoleon Dynamite, which also suffered critically (albeit less, especially in hindsight) for the same reasons. While you can say the humor isn't quite your cuppa tea, or you don't get the references, and that's fair, there's honesty to it that you don't see in most movies. Examples: The music doesn't swell up at emotional moments (there's almost no music if any that I can recall). At first glance, judging from the silly attire and zany characters/evangelical setting you'd think these people are all caricatures of grifters, trying to fuck each other over, but as the movie goes on you see the humanity in their motivations as the characters are laid bare. You even see Don's subtle cry for help briefly in one scene, the chapter and verse hanging on the door of his mobile home.

James 1:8 - Such a person is double-minded and unstable in all they do.

There's one less than subtle scene where Don says to himself that he only wants to bring people to Jesus, that's why he does all this, but you don't even need that, you see his world, warts and all. He lives in a mobile home despite having his own ministry. He has an understanding of history, referencing Bacon's fabled stash in Nova Scotia. He knows the historical areas around Israel. He understands the laws that gatekeep archeology. You think to yourself watching it, man this guy is really putting a lot of effort into a grift like this, he's not keen to step it up with Boaz and make tonnes of cash, so what keeps him going? He's either one of the most Machiavellian parasites ever, funneling his talents into running an evangelical ministry to get his ego trip (this is possible, but doesn't fit with his demeanor, and really doesn't seem like much of a payoff for the work), or he actually thinks he can run a positive psyop. It's silly but believable enough for a comedy.

AY LEE! LEEE! OH HO HOOOO LEE! GET DAT SWEET N SOUR ASS LEE! YEAH DAS IT! WOO! GET ON UP-A! >camera close up shows chris tucker's face go from jiving to shocked as he turns 4th wall and O faces at what the camera quickly reveals is a very fat and old asian chick sitting on the seat across, spreading her legs, revealing camel toe through her yoga pants. "YOU WANT SOME SUCKY FUCKY BIG AMERICAN MAN?" she bellows sultrily, squeezing her floppy tits together through the purple party dress OH HELL NO! LEE! LET'S GET DA FUCK OUTTA HERE LEE! "YOU... DON'T WANT ME!?... WWAEHRRRAAAAHGHHHHHHH!!!!!" the woman cries, the occupants reply to the mawkish commotion mechanically, drawing out short, sharp, sickle-like daggers

Harry checked his watch and saw he had 20 minutes to get to work, which wasn’t a problem, although he’d have no time to spare for anything else. He took off his shirt and chucked it on the first spill spot on the scratched, grainy linoleum floor, mopping up the spill trail he’d left by shuffling back to the kitchen with the shirt under his foot. Picking the soggy, patchy like a now-brown-cow garment up, he made his way back upstairs. Ironic hangings adorned the wall by the stairs that had lost all humor and now only served to annoy – a square helvetica framed plaque that read “live laugh love”, a green dreamcatcher, a hand-sewn portrait of two cockapoos he’d found at the thrift store, and a bloomy wedding photo of some 80s couple with wild hair kissing with middle fingers to the camera. Harry rounded the corner to his room and threw the wadded cloth into his wash basket, and selected the right-most white button up and tie combo hanging in the wardrobe – black ties for every day except Friday. Zipping up his pants, he looked in the mirror and adjusted his slack and weary expression, slipping into work mode as his face became tighter, his eyes larger and brighter, with a slight even smile that said “I am normal”. He held the image in his mind and felt the lilt in his voice rise as he paced out the door calling out “catchya later, Tom!”, not waiting for a snarky response that would reground him.

“HI SIR! My partner Rodney called you earlier today to discuss a business opportunity you don’t wanna miss, a new way to save on overheads while improving efficiency that’s designed and curated by the best heads in the game. If you have 5 minutes I’d like to go over it with you, whatdoyasay?”

20 min free write – Spaceship

Ricky stepped out of the diner and rubbed his eyes. The stirring in his stomach after the pancake and coffee binge was instantly forgotten as the red glint of light descended, approaching from the purple horizon of the desert sunset. He reached instinctively for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, the feeling of the crumpled packet lacking its usual comforting effect as it nestled into his hand. The light grew brighter, consuming the landscape as it stormed towards him. The shape now visible, Ricky’s body went limp – a ginormous cigar shaped ship, silent, defying its size, made landing in the open desert plane across from the diner. Turning back to the diner to see if anyone noticed the commotion, he felt an odd calm, as if time had stood still. Indeed, the trees were not swaying, no wind could be felt. Glancing through the dust-covered windows he could make out the shape of Sally smiling dreamily with her coffee pot, poised over another patron’s mug pouring a stream of coffee that defied gravity as it hung in mid-air. He turned back and saw the ship had an arched opening, and a ramp coming down with lights adorning the sides, blinking upwards like on a runway. He stood for a moment watching, expecting something to come out, a lizard person, an octopus monster, anything – but nothing came. After a bit of time his curiosity got the best of him and he approached it himself, hollering out to it with a trepidatious waver “h-hello? Who’s there? What do you want?” The questions came without really expecting an answer, but it was his nature to attempt them.

It’s every day. They haunt me in my sleep, teasing me, guiding me. They tell me I have no control, that I have to succumb to their power, let it pull me around in whatever way they see fit. Others tell me I can do anything. They tell me that this is one universe of many, all linked, and that every small decision moves us across different timelines. Some are closer than others, and the conditions have to precede the result. This is how they found me.

When I was a child I didn’t know better, I believed anything was possible and powerful, supernatural mysteries hid in the dark corners of the world. I saw demons, spoke to God, but these things were rarities, and others were convinced they didn’t exist. As I grew, that belief in normality kept me grounded. I no longer saw these mysterious things, and anything out of the ordinary was chalked up to a trick of the mind.

I learned about the subjectivity of experience later, and grew to understand it. There was no way to prove your perspective was any more real than another’s, even if they seemed crazy. I started meditating, thinking about how to unlock my hidden potential again, excited by the power I could attain. People called me crazy, telling me to be careful, afraid that I'd start to see the world in a way that might consume me, my imagination becoming too wild and powerful to control. A delusion - that only way for experience to be considered real was for others to perceive the same thing. So I sought out others with similar so called delusions, to share their experiences, so that I could make them my own.

Throughout history there are myths of beings and forms from other planes, of a tie between the mind and the material. Groups would become convinced of their legitimacy, worshiping them, fearing them, making offerings, committing acts to gain favor. I figured the best place to start was a church. I entered by local parish and spoke to the pastor, he told me the way to salvation was through belief, that power and rewards came through faith. I sat in the congregation, eyes closed, putting my hands out and speaking to the invisible, begging it for strength, admitting my weakness and dependence on it. It worked, a feeling of lightness and love filled my heart, but part of me wasn’t able to fully accept it. The feeling left me as quickly as it came. I figured that I would need more proof than just a feeling, I would need convincing.

I had seen lights in the sky when I was very young, moving in ways I saw as inhuman, dancing around and defying gravity. The thought never left me, and in my search for magic and the supernatural, I looked to the sky one night. There above me, as if they knew I would look, were a handful of lights dancing around in front of the big dipper. They acted erratically and impressively, only to spread out, moving like an aeroplane, before blinking out and fading from sight. I saw it as a sign, that they were trying to help me believe, to not give up in my search. My thoughts ran away from me, and I was plagued by the enigmas of the world, of what I’d seen and what it meant, how I could use it. I searched for occult knowledge, reading everything I could find, but all the contradiction and mystery never led to tangible understanding. I figured I needed to take a chance on faith again.

One night I spoke to the spirits, my loneliness getting the better of me I invited a female entity to my bed. I felt a sense of lust, like something had read me and understood what I was about, and liked it. Lying in bed I felt a cool breeze gently coming through my window, moving from my right. The sheets on my bed seemed to move against the breeze, as if a hand had brushed up against my leg, and I felt what was like fingertips running up my body, resting in the area of my kundalini, vibrating sensually, and filling my body with pleasure. I was lying still, but my breathing became heavy, and I felt as if I was having sex with some invisible entity, I came close to climaxing. Again, my faith waned, but I felt a closeness with the unseen and went with it, talking to it for a few days. I decided to tell it that I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything serious, afraid it would latch itself to me if I let it, based on what I'd read about such entities. As quick as that, with a sense that it understood me, it left.

I feel that my search has given me an empathy and sensitivity to the energies of people, animals, and nature. I can feel the impact of thoughts directed and related to me. I've been careful not to send out negative thoughts myself, initially considering that negative thoughts can work as a defense, as if wrestling over the legitimacy of an argument on a psychic level, with one winner burdening the other. However, I moved on from this belief, and I’m now careful about the energy I project onto others. It makes me wonder, where do feelings of positivity come from, perhaps there is some guardian angel looking out for us in our time of need, perhaps the powers of good and evil are vying for control of us all the time.

My name is Terrance Weathers, and I am the creator of the super fun happy slide. From a young age I have always been obsessed with slides, the feeling of weightlessness, the wind in my hair, the feeling of inertia as I hurtle down the slippery dip gaily. I worked in accounting, like my father, saving pennies and cutting tax-costs for my employer, always dreaming of a more innocent, happy time. I was much too old for slides, and the thought of using one had long been forgotten.

I sought happiness in the nuclear family life, I met a woman, had a few children, and when they were old enough, I bought them their own slide in the backyard. One morning, I was having my milk-coffee with marmalade on toast as I tend to do, and I looked out the window to watch my children playing about in the yard, swinging on the swings, see-sawing on the see-saw, and sliding down the slide. They sure did love the slide. The thought re-entered my mind, the blissful feeling of the slide took hold of my mind, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. After many sleepless nights stressed from work, I decided enough was enough. I went out into the yard, and went down the slide myself. Alas, I was much too tall and grown up to enjoy the little slide. I decided to search for a bigger one.

The water park in my town was famous for its twisty, slippery water slide. Adults very rarely used it, but I decided to give it a go. Shaking off the embarrassment and nervousness of being the only adult in queue for the slide, ignoring the giggles on the face of the teenage employee as he waved me on to sit down in the bubbling frothy water atop the slide, I entered the blue tunnel and sailed down. The feeling of hurtling down that tunnel at speed, propelled by my adult weight and the water rushing through was sublime, I felt so amazing I cried out “WHEEEE” as I went down, ending in a mighty splash at the bottom. I did it again and again, but eventually, the feeling subsided. Not content with just this one break in my doldrums, I needed more, but how? I tossed and turned in bed for multiple nights, my craving for slides had only grown, like an addict, my sensitivity had waned, and I needed a greater fix.

One morning I entered the lounge room and saw my children playing Mario 64 on their video game machine. Mario, the little man, was speeding down an icy slide, spiraling down, an abyss below him. This gave me the idea. That day, I rushed out to the hardware store and spent all our savings on an order for all the materials necessary to construct my dream slide. For many years I toiled, drawing up plans, conducting experiments, but it all seemed hopeless. One day, a local news outlet came upon my efforts, and did a story that went viral across the globe. They made films about me and the slide, benefactors helped out with cash and workers, and I spent every penny I made on the slide, until finally, my dream was complete.

500 meters high, accessible by the attached elevator. Spiraling down, an average person would reach speeds of up to 100 km/h. But I didn’t stop there. For the more seasoned sliders, I had a lever that retrieved the side-barriers much like in a bowling alley, for added tension and fun. As well, saw-blades swung on pendulums crossed through the slide at intermittent junctions. Parts of the slide would raise, allowing for jumps through rings o’ fire that would ignite. The slider would have to adjust their speed by controlling their body.

Sometimes I wonder about how confusing I must come across to other people, in the same way they all seem crazy and nuanced to me. Most of us try to be similar to each other in some respects, such as being likeable, polite, good with money, trusting, lawful, selfless, virtuous, etc. But we all harbor negative traits that end up similar to each other as well, probably out of being suppressed in the same way. But we’re all unique, nobody is exactly the same no matter how much people would like to think so, through calling them npcs, brainwashed, normies, or whatever.

Nobody fully understands each other, or themselves, but we’re all pretty good at understanding our self, better than anyone else can. That’s one way to look at the meaning of life, we’re forced to be individuals, and we can understand ourselves better than anyone. And there’s obviously significance in that, what we like, what we’re afraid of, how we want to be, it’s all rich with colour and meaning.

Earlier today I was stewing in a hate spiral as I call it, stress rattling around my brain, nothing to break me out of it. Nothing seemed worth doing. Then I exercised, because I thought fuck it, why not, if nothing matters I’ll just do it. I’ve come to this decision so many times. And then I felt better. It’s easy to say “how stupid, I shouldn’t be depressed or hateful or negative, because I’ll find a way out, I always do.” I can’t decide whether I have free will, or if every decision I’ve made is based on chemicals and conditioning. There’s still so many question marks on how to control this flesh-prison/holy vessel, but I know better than anyone else how this one works. Maybe if you’re limited in cognitive capacity someone might know you better than yourself, but they don’t experience it first-hand. Anyone telling you they have the answer is bullshitting you, because it’s general. It might work, it might not, only through your experience and experimentation can you come to something like knowing. Personally, I don’t know what works for me, but the general advice only works some of the time, and pills never helped me that much.

So if you’re looking for how to improve your life, don’t listen to people as if they know better than you, and don’t take their advice as gospel, including doctors. Experiment, try shit out, that’s why we’re so different and we all survive, because our experiences and genetics, and all the nuance shapes us to react in unique and different ways. God might work for you, it might not. Exercise might help, it might not. Nobody knows for sure.

Nathan McDermott lived at home, he always had, felt he always would. Around 3pm he would usually wake, tired despite getting his 8 hours. Sometimes he’d jerk off his waking boner, other times he’d go straight to the kitchen and sate another hunger. Brafternoon tea – eggs, bacon strips, beans, toast, hash browns or potato gems, and toast to soak it all up, sipping a coffee or two while he ate. During his breakfast he often paused to take a shit, coming back to a tepid plate that he’d begrudgingly continue. Wasting food was a sin. Chucking the plate on the floor, or around his desk, he reached over and swizzled off the cap to his flavoured vodka. Pouring himself a generous helping, mixing it with warm canned lemonade he had stashed under his desk, he sipped while scrolling the forums and fondling himself.

Sometimes he’d let out his frustration by raging about pointless trash to easy targets, unsure if he wanted a response, or would hate to receive one. Other times he’d boot up a video game, combing through every nook and cranny, but either way, he’d lose track of time, which was the primary goal, to forget about life. This habitual routine, a pattern of congregated joyless urges feeding off each other, steered his life. Glancing out towards the window, seeing the birds, something resonated and pulled him in. He’d long forgotten and devalued how the sunshine and the outside can revivify, instead, he only felt hopelessness and defeat at the sight. That was a place for others, people stronger than him, born lucky, or with a strength he was far from attaining. Much too far, the thought alone of climbing out of his pit exhausted him, he was always exhausted of course, and the smallest steps were a massive effort. Thoughts too exhausting to let germinate, quickly nipped in the bud.

He checks the time, 7pm. Too late to do anything outside, just as the midday energy of his brafternoon tea kicks in. Oh well.

Take a load off brother, life is about having fun. Don’t stress yourself. Dinner will be ready soon, I think mum’s making tacos. Still time for another fap. Just don’t look at your body, and don’t let your arm brush against your ballooning man-tits too much, all distractions we don’t need. That’s it, let us assume control. Speak to me, as if you speak to another, fracture yourself and blame the other, when you’re an inner child beheld to the other, you don’t need to grow up. Poor thing. Eat your din dins.

Time for more games! So much trauma. They’re not excuses, they’re reasons. You’re very logical. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. 9pm, let’s relax. Have some more drink, put on a show, don’t cry, I’m right here. I know what you need. Dopamine, baby.

Nathan. WAKE UP! GET UP AND DO SOMETHING! YOU’RE PATHETIC! GET DOWN ON THE GROUND AND GIMME 20 RIGHT NOW! FUCKING DO IT DO IT DO ITT DO ITTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!

1…2…3……4……….

That was a pretty good effort. Not bad. Still pretty pathetic though. Have another drink, maybe a smoke? I know you quit, but times are tough, and you don’t wanna live forever. Let’s go for a walk, that’s productive right?

The moon was beautiful in blurred vision. Stumbling gracefully like in Zui Quan, dancing around, bottle in hand, he weaves his way in bliss through the night. Sip. A sudden burning sensation, he sits down, pulling up grass and feeling it between his fingers, performing a cross-section, analysing carefully, before scrunching it up in a ball and throwing it in the air. Maybe some sit-ups?

1….2….3…..4……5……..6…….7………8…………9……………10!

Fuck yeah! That was hard, but you can keep this up. You’ll be fit in no time.

11pm. Nathan goes back inside, tired and sweaty, enjoying the feeling mixed with a little drunken carelessness and daydreaming, he stumbles back to his computer chair and plops himself down. Now what?

Another sip of vodka down, he moans while getting out of his chair. Making it to the kitchen, he opens up the fridge and leans on the door heavily, assessing the inventory. Feeling zany, he fishes out a store-bought pre-made salad, healthy AND tasty, along with a large bag of BBQ crinkle cut chips from the pantry, and retreats to his room. He opens up a 3 hour video on pizzagate, enjoying the demoralisation as a sobering reminder of the world and people he hates/avoids, munching down his snack to the twisted crayon drawings of traumatised trafficking-victims. The hate spiral continues down, trapped by G-force, he plunges deeper.

I hate these people. I want them all to burn, I wish a flood would swallow the Earth and kill everyone. There’s nothing I can do. Hopeless, hopeless, AHHHHHHH.

He smashes the desk with a thumping fist, clattering the empty cups and plates together. 2am. Fuck this, time for a distraction, I can’t sleep like this. Nathan opens up a game, killing time and enemies. His head hurts. The hangover coming fast, he takes a big gulp of vodka. The placebo effect immediate, dilatory distraction resumes. He feels the buzz, his eyes growing heavy, his headache still pressing but mixed with tingling.

4am. Nathan opens up his messages. Nothing. He checks his bank account, $5.64, 3 days til pay day.

What’s your ex doing? Probably curled up against someone right now. Remember your dead dog? Remember that time you were alone with the teacher? Your parents hate you. You’ll never amount to anything. Who are you anyway? Imagine how peaceful death is. What’s the easiest way to kill yourself? Are you happy? I know what you need. Go to sleep, dreams are nice. Don’t think about tomorrow. Take it one day at a time. If you still feel like shit then, maybe do something about it. You probably will anyway, but you’ve still got some booze left. That’ll tide you over. I guess you don’t wanna die after all, at least not yet.  

Westview. A pleasant town, a small town. Nothing much out of the ordinary goes on around these parts. The men, dutiful and diligent, make their way to work every morning, ready for the long day ahead. The women, filled with love and grace, stand on the porches waving them off, looking forward to their own busy days. The children, off to school, the sun shining above them, the green grass waving in the breeze as they stroll by, chatting away with glee about their busy days. Westview is a busy town.

Nigel works the bar, keeping it nicely polished and prim, a warm inviting place for the regulars and rare new faces, ready with a smile and a clean glass for whomever might appear. Today he receives his weekly shipment of liquor, he greets Robert the deliveryman and Robert greets back. They tip their hats in respect and conduct their business. Busy lives, busy men. Robert wheels in the kegs.

However. Robert, being extra-busy this day, thought to stack an extra keg on his trolley to make up for lost time. Oh, Robert. Wheeling the keg through the doorway, he knocks the curb. The extra weight shifts the trolley, sending the kegs tumbling to the floor. If that wasn’t bad enough, Robert in his panic attempts to catch the kegs with a sharp, twisting motion of his back. Laid on the floor, Robert rather regrets his decision. He wasn’t thinking safely.

Barbara, Robert’s wife, is doing the cleaning up at home. She dusts the cabinet with careful precision, wistfully pondering her idyllic existence. A husband and 3 children to love, and plenty of things to do around the house. What more could she ask for?

Just then, the phone rings. It’s the hospital, calling to inform her about Robert’s condition. “Hello, Mrs. Grant speaking?” she answers. “Yes, miss, this is Westview hospital. I regret to inform you that your husband Robert has taken a bit of a tumble and injured his back. He may require surgery, you best get down here as soon as you can. I’m sorry miss, I can only imagine how you must feel. Robert is eager to speak with you, he’s in room 46, please come as soon as you can.” Barbara rushes out to the car and starts it, racing to the hospital.

However. Barbara, in her haste, her thoughts filled with concern for her husband’s welfare, as any good wife would be, neglects to notice how fast she is traveling. Barbara rounds one tight corner a bit too widely, then another, and another. Oh, Barbara. You can guess what’s going to happen next. Taking yet another corner rather too fast, she finds herself hurtling towards another car on the wrong side of the road! She quickly corrects and hits the brakes, but with the car going much too fast she cannot correct adequately. Barbara’s car careens off the road into a ditch, grinding to an abrupt halt, giving her a nasty concussion. She, also, wasn't thinking safely.

Little Jimmy sits in his classroom. Practicing his handwriting, and getting rather good at it, he entwines the letters together adeptly. Just as he’s finishing his 3rd sentence, Mr. Matthews, the principal, knocks on the door, and is invited to enter the classroom by Mrs. Stevens. “HELLO MR. MATTHEWS” chants the class. “Hello, class. I’m afraid I need to speak with little Jimmy in the hallway. If you’d please, Jimmy?” asks Mr. Matthews. Oh dear. Jimmy had never, never been in trouble before. Whatever could it be?

Jimmy follows Mr. Matthews out into the hallway, with the principal shutting the door behind them. “Now, Jimmy, I don’t mean to alarm you, but both your parents have had the misfortune of being in accidents today. They’re both in Westview hospital. Your Father hurt his back while on the job, and your Mother suffered a concussion after crashing her vehicle on the way to the hospital to see your Father. Now, Jimmy, don’t get upset. They’re both going to be fine I’m told. But for now, you’ll need somewhere to stay. Do you have any family you can stay with?”

What a shock this was to poor little Jimmy. “Yes sir, my Aunt Megan and my Uncle Frank over in Eastview. But, sir, would it be ok if I visited my parents in the hospital? I’m ever so worried” pleaded Jimmy. “You’ll have to discuss that with your Aunt and Uncle, Jimmy boy. Now, run back to class, I’ll notify them that you’ll be dropped off at their house by the bus after school.”

Jimmy sat anxiously in his chair for the bell to end, beset by concern for his parents well-being, he wasn't able to perform as well as usual. Riiiiiiing. “Thank you class for another lovely day, see you all tomorrow!” said Mrs. Stevens, as the children jumped out of their chairs, tucking them neatly into their desks, marching politely out of class, eager to tell tales, play games, and muck about as children do while making their way home. Jimmy however, had other plans. Westview hospital was only a few miles from the school, and Jimmy had the idea of going to see his parents, rather than catching the bus to his Aunt and Uncle’s. It was not like Jimmy to disobey the rules, but he was so overcome by concern that he felt he simply had to go. Oh, Jimmy.

As he walked towards the hospital, single-mindedly, he passed under a ladder that was being used by Mr. Alda, the town sign-writer. Mr. Alda was painting a new sign for Horace’s general store, giving it a fresh modern look. Atop the ladder, with a fresh can of green paint, was Mr. Alda, dipping into it with haste, the busy man had only work on his mind, as working men tend to do.

However. Jimmy, in his thoughtful pacing, ducked under the ladder being used by Mr. Alda. Now, as the saying goes, it’s bad luck to walk under a ladder. In this case, it was very bad indeed. Mr. Alda dipped into his paint can a little too carelessly, focused on the lettering on Horace’s sign, and knocked the paint can down, down, down to the ground. “Look out below!” called Mr. Alda, but Jimmy didn’t hear him until all too late. Looking up, he only had time to see the can coming right for his poor little head. THUD! He wasn't thinking safely either, and now he couldn't think straight at all!

Busy people, busy lives. It’s always good to take pride in your work, and do your very best, but one thing to always make time for, is safety. Let’s all do our best to stay safe out there, so we can all continue to live happily, and healthily.