For those that remember, I was shot four times in late-Spring 2010, resulting in a C2 spinal-cord injury that I not only survived, but have lived long enough to see life on my feet as well.
Learning to breathe again was serious bullshit. It took 24 days while in the ICU that Summer; one hour off the respirator the first day, two hours the second day, three hours the third…
If you haven’t used your lungs and you’re forced to think about pulling each-breath-in and pushing each-breath-out, every second of every minute for hours on end, don’t be surprised if you begin to freak out, totally normal reaction...
I can successfully admit that I beat the stranglehold of pain medication. Although not one milligram has passed through my system in over two years, there was the arduous process of working through the pain, depression, and bullshit that only mother earth’s “natural green medicine” could carry me through without dangerous, long-term affect. I owe a lot to the Devil’s Lettuce. Thank you old friend, you will be missed.
It has been 14 months since I shed my electric wheelchair. I was three-hundred fucking pounds.
Homebrew and Taco Bell really sink their fat, fucking greedy teeth in when you aren’t moving and you’re stoked on how things taste because they aren’t being squirted through a tube in your nose that leads to your belly.
Getting out of the wheelchair was unavoidable, literally. On April 20th (or some shit) 2012, this little guy came home and running him over was out of the question:
My Doberman: “Judge”
A couple months later:
At five months:
And at one year, and 90-fucking-pounds of crazy:
Judge may be single-handedly responsible for my recovery to this point. I’m down to 215 pounds and dropping. Hey Single Ladies out there, you all like guys with scars?? I know you do. BLOW
Since I’ve been blessed with the gift of Walk, I do as much as my current physical situation will allow.
I can use an angle grinder for almost eight minutes. I can wash a car in 89 minutes. I can change an intake manifold in three days.
These are huge accomplishments.
As a man, Accomplishment grows way down in his Ballsack and can only be unleashed if you have the balls big enough to do so. On the other end of the argument, a real man has humility, and that grows in his heart. You aren’t a real man if you can’t admit that. So what if it takes an hour to clean an SKS? Fuck you. Physical Therapy works. If you’re supposed to go, and you don’t, you’re an asshole.
Mad Max got by just fine with just a dog and a car.
It’s good to be back, Motherfucker’s.