The Reason I Try Not to Jump

Sometimes, as I walk gingerly down the sidewalk or through parks, I'm overcome with a startling urge to sprint and leap off of something.
It always starts as a thrilling, heart pounding activity. The cliffs of mother nature direct challenges straight through my retinas and into the AWESOME CENTER of my brain, where they are met by an impulsive, irrational gruff voice that yells "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED, MOTHER NATURE FUCKAAAAAAAAA!"

Mother nature stands idly by, like a cocky bully who happens to have 20lbs on me and has somehow managed to sprout a beard prior to exiting gradeschool.


But I always refuse to back down. If only mother nature would come directly out and issue this challenge, like FATHER nature would, I'd be able to accept or decline and go on with my day. But the indifference of her toward my frenzy fills my rage meter up to 11.


Then the crickets start in. The birds appear from behind the blinding sun, and that nearby brook starts babbling like a bunch of nuns in a brothel.


Mother nature's indifferences puts me into a blind trance. The shouts of my friends and the thought of consequences is removed from my mind. I'm going to leap like a kangaroo on PCP.


And then I'm soaring. The cliff I saw in my mind becomes a mere 4 foot drop. I feel the sun on my skin, notice the blades of grass, and feel euphoria spread across my face. The only thing I hear is my voice box screeching "I WON, MUTHA NATURE!"


My feet make contact with the ground nicely, but within a quarter of a second of landing my heels are racked in pain. It feels like a thousand rabid mongeese are gnawing at my tendons and bones, trying to pull them apart with their little, dextrous rodent hands.


At this point I usually get angry with mother nature for deceiving me into believing that falling 4 or less feet would not have any consequences. I take the time to flip mother nature the bird, and limp away slowly.