Wednesday, September 13, 2006
A branch, a sword, a gun, a motorcycle.
When I was young, a busted off branch represented an infinite realm of possibilities.
For hours, I would be the brave hero, defeating swarms of evil grassy minions, relishing the conquest of my villainous foes.
I could lock and load, fight my way through the snowy hell, and claim the mountain from the commie horde.
Squealing my rear tire, pulling a wheelie for hours, I was the fastest rider on the dirt track.
I miss my stick.