Missing the Split.

Kicked. In the stomach. Once. Twice. One more time.

Hot, crimson blood seeps from the thin spaces between my teeth. It drips from my lips, down my chin. I dab it with my hand and feel my chest for any pain. Just blow after blow. I'm seeing these flashing lights and I'm confused out of my mind. I look up and see flourescence glaring down at me, flickering with their nasty hum and crackle.

"Coke okay?" I hear a distant voice say. "And what are you doing at the sock dispenser?"
I return to sudden reality and realize where I actually am. I'm staring into the glass, kids and men's socks ready for purchase in front of my nose. [of couse there would be no women's socks.]
"Coke is perfectly fine," I reply with a slight smile.

Bowling has become a weekend sort of ritual nowadays. I don't know why. It seems like such a simple form of entertainment though.

Throwing all too many gutters, with the occasional spare, strike, and open frame peppered in. I'm only so good as to beat the last place boy by about two or three points both games. But I'm getting a good laugh out of it, and the Alabama/Texas game is on in the background. So I'm a very happy camper.
But the shakiness still occurs.
Oh. And Danny manages to get Coke on my jeans while trying to be a gentleman and fill my styrofoam cup up with drink. Valiant? Well. It was a try.

I get up, and walk away. There's still that iron-y taste in my mouth. I need to brush my teeth, because they're tinted a tad bit, the color of mashed strawberries.
No marks left from the kicks. Just a scratch or two.

Nothing I've never dealt with before.