stephen r king
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monday 2:15am april twenty-eighth two thousand three

I'm a jock.

no, not at all. but today I played wiffleball in fort greene park. at first I was a little hesitant, and I did have some gym class flashbacks when the captains picked teams, but it turned out that I had fun. and I didn't even strike out once!

so, about three innings in, I decided to grab myself a drink from the cooler. (Jocks drink beer during games, right?) so I opened said beverage, took some big gulps, and enjoyed its cold bubbly goodness.

then I looked down at the bottle, and realized the top was chipped. I felt my lips, no blood. I held the bottle up to the light, no broken glass on the inside. hmm, where would this broken glass be?

I mentioned "hey, the top of my bottle is broken." then molly consoled me with a story about the time her mom drank a snapple and realized her mouth had been torn up by a barrage of broken glass.

I felt better.

then someone got out or something, and our team went back to the field. by this time, I was hyper-aware of the slightest sensations in my body. is that a little heartburn I feel? or is that a shard of glass tearing its way down my esophagus? or do I just have to burp?

you may now be wondering, (but probably not,) "hey steve, did you drink broken glass?" well, I'm not real sure. I'm going to guess that I didn't. because it's been about twelve hours, and I'm guessing a sharp piece of glass hurtling through my digestive system would've been apparent by now.

so, in hindsight, this story sucked.

but would you like to know what won't suck? seeing pearl jam this week. twice. which I'm going to have to go ahead and do.