I'm certain that the night it was 50 below zero my water pump decided to have some water in it and freeze. Fuck me.
The next day I drove to work and it decided to self-destruct in the process, silently.
That night, in-bound to massive gorging on endless chicken wings, I blew coolant all over the belt line as my engine shutoff and I simultaneously lost power steering.
Fuck me twice.
Now I owe moneys to the car-fixy-folks.
And all I can think is "Fuck this shit, I'm going to squat."
The heavy bar.
Oh, how you make it better. An unwavering crystal reflection of how much suck I have left in me to give.
You require only everything I have, and on occasion, more.
How serene the world is at the bottom of our journey. There are no cars. There is no Winter. There is only the infinite up, and the identity-changing-transformation from the guppy who it was that descended, to the wood-carved veteran of the having-been-there-school.
You afford me the justifications for more sleep. For a well-deserved shower. Massage. Neck adjustments. Scapula adjustments. Calf therapy. Rehab for joints. Bandaids, neosporin, and hand cream. Fish oil. 20 oz Prime Rib. Constantly grilling rib eyes. The slow cooker always full. Bacon. Bacon Grease. Butter. Heavy Cream. Protein powder, bro.
Even at 50 below zero, you melt the world away.
