There’s this pain that is always with me. They say it will always be. They say I will never be the same. Some how pain changes you. I suppose it is the scar the wound leaves. Kind of like when I was a kid and was playing around with a friends beebee gun and accidentally shot myself in the leg. I never told my mother, so I never had it removed—I just didn’t want to get in trouble, or prove her right, “You’ll poke your eye out with that thing.” So I continue to suffer from this little beebee in my leg. It hurts whenever a pretty girl sits on my lap—or an ugly one, doesn’t matter, you would think it would hurt more since the ugly ones are already annoying by being on your lap univited—it drives that beebee almost against my femur, it’s some crazy pain. So this pain is always there even if there is no one there. So I’m not just meandering, there is something causing this lack of motivation…this internal woe that can’t be fixed by medicine. But, I guess if I would have told my mother of my trouble I could have had this beebee taken out. There must be some dark pleasure in pain, because this beebee is still there and I have the resources to just have the damn thing taken out myself. Perhaps I just like the memory…I was young then. Yes, they say it changes you…I guess that beebee keeps me away from ugly girls. I guess this pain will keep me somewhere too. I still here my friend saying, “Be careful, she’s loaded.” I should have listened better…or been a better shot…or known more about beebee guns…or just been too afraid of mothers words, “Stay away from them son…you’ll poke your eye out.” But I was kid, and loved to play…loved to take risks…and the pain was easier to take, and I wasn’t afraid of blood…or falling from a tree, or riding my bike off a steep hill…I was afraid of shoplifting, but I did that anyway…so long as I didn’t get caught. I didn’t know a heart could be broken.