…and that was it. I was now sitting in a pool of my own blood and regret. I thought I got a good one in, but his coach must have told him he was looking for a knockout. White flashes showed like subliminal message suggesting my stupidity. I wasn’t sure if I was missing teeth or had lips swollen to the point of popping. My best course of action at that point was to projective vomit on some of the nicely placed flowers at the apartment complex.
After a brief stint of collecting myself, my friends seemed to fade in. “Hey, are you okay man?” My eyes remained lazy. “You took quite the punch just now?” I joked, “How big was she? ” My friends tried to gather me off the cement, but I was gelatin. I flapped around like those dancing wind guys outside of K-Mart’s Grand Closing sale.
When I could stand, I noticed a pool of people surrounding me. They weren’t talking, so I thought it was in my head. The more I gathered myself, the more I noticed they did have their eyes on me. ”Did I win an award or something?” There was less laughter and more blank stares. I turned to my friends and asked, “What’s with all the faces?” She replied, “They are shocked your alive! The guy that hit you was the size of Mike Tyson.” Well, I was feeling quite proud at this point. Why did we even get in a fight, I thought. Apparently, he thought I was the one who hit on his girlfriend. It was a classic case of the wrongly identified. For that reason, I had to wear this human-flesh Halloween costume for a few weeks.
It’s funny, you know, how we recall memories like that and gather pride. I love how petty people can become, too. I mean, did that have to Rock’em Sock’em my face before gathering enough evidence to place a verdict? No, because in the jungle, no one knows how to play along. Needless to say, he was probably a tool. And hey, I was probably a tool for looking like the guy who actually check out that girl. Hell, I may have even taken a glance at her that evening. More glory to those who tell the story…