Son of a sandbagger, it is cold outside.
So cold, in fact, that I could not wait the extra 15 seconds to wait for the onslaught of rush hour traffic to slow down before crossing Smith St. I would have been fine had the octogenarian who was last in line before I made my dash not been going one seventh of his age in speed, leaving me but 1.6 seconds to dash across the street.
"Oh, look at me!" I thought, "Light as a feather, I frolic across the pasto-" [thud]
My g.d. pointed boot had caught in a crater of the Kilimanjaro-esque snowdrift lining the opposite side of the street, sending my ever-expanding ass into the air as I completed a half-pike, full-turn somersault onto the sidewalk. Freshly sanded.
Fuck, I hate my legs. You would, too, if you knew them as I do. Trust me. They're bitches.
I feel that we should develop some sort of metaphysical medical technology that would allow me to use the legs of 365 of my nearest and dearest for one day a year. Think about it. Not only would you get to do a brother a solid, you would also gain empathy for the gimps of the world. They could even make a Facebook application for it.
In related news: Ow, crap, my knee hurts.