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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Monday, January 25   >>


The worst part about this horrible beat-down wound on the left side of my face -- aside from the stitches, the inability to shower my face (most disgusting feeling ever, I swear), the black puffiness around my left eye, the pain it entails from simply sneezing or yawning, and the aches waking up every morning -- is, honestly, just talking about it.

I've never been in a fight before. There was one time in the 8th grade that I almost got into one (when I arrived at the meeting place for the fight, I saw that the guy I was about to duel had about 15 guys backing him up, and I ran like Forrest fucking Gump circa-leg braces all the way home to avoid my impending doom), but other than that, I've been clear of these things.

So it's no wonder that replaying the other night has kept me from sleeping well. Every hour since it happened I have someone look at me in complete shock and ask, "What happened?" and when I start talking about it, I start shaking. I just say, "I'm just cold."

Eventually, I perfected the story down to this exact quote: "Wrong people, wrong place, wrong time. I'm a victim of people gone awry via alcohol."

Most of them say, "Well, that night was pretty rock and roll, if you ask me..." and we laugh because I retell the story so passively that it merits no real worry.

But deep down I worry about the future of those involved, and how I'll never be part of what was thought to be controlled recklessness. I know for sure this will never happen to me again, but the others, frankly, I doubt and worry about their inability to learn from the past.

And I think that's far worse than even the most painful flesh wounds.