Good as any, Better than most

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.