trauma or i . . . ah. . . um. . . fell down the stairs

My first thought, after the initial shock, was that I was going to have two black eyes and that was going to be hard to explain. And my second thought was that we’d definitely have to have separate interviews at the emergency room.

He doesn’t just do jazz hands when he tells a story about an crisis, he really does it when he’s panicking.

He got me ice, which was thoughtful, considering he’d just woken me with a full-force headbutt. There was no blood, and I wasn’t so worried that I had a concussion that I couldn’t go back to sleep.

~beatrix

coney island: a metaphor of sorts

Ted took me to Coney Island because he said I had to ride the Cyclone so I could be a real New Yorker. The beach there has a lot of trashcans.

We went to the aquarium and watched people Shoot the Freak and ate a mango on a stick. We made out on the Wonderwheel and had lunch at a Russian place down the boardwalk in Brighton Beach. We went to the Freak Show, and it was disgusting and amazing, and when we walked out of it, it wasn’t summer anymore, but fall.

We bought tickets for the Cyclone and got in line. And we waited. And waited. Because the rollercoaster was stuck. It was full of people and had stopped at the top of the first hill. For a long time. They were up there for at least twenty minutes before anyone decided what to do. And the solution was for all the Cyclone employees to climb up there and push start it so that it could run the rest of the way. We got a refund because the rollercoaster couldn’t go again until after the inspector came. I guess it was a big deal, because when we walked out, we were bombarded by reporters who wanted to know what had happened up there.

And even though we’d witnessed what bad things could happen, we came back and re-bought our tickets and got back in line. It was thrilling and terrifying and so much fun. I forget how much I love rollercoasters.

~beatrix