I'm hugging the wall like an old drunk, who's just been kicked out a bar at night. My arm is reaching round to my crotch. I look like I'm halfway through a stroke.
My mind is overwhelmed. It trawls the waters like an ironclad of doom. Every move I make is sending a calvacade of pain throughout my body.
People are walking past me. No one stops. They struggle to care.
Why should they? Pain is a pursuit of solitude.
I lift my right arm, reaching for air. My deltoid hardens with the authority of paper mache. It exudes power yet is flaccid as it suffers a barrage of needle pain.
I start to cast my thoughts back to how it all began.
The weight was light. I was snapping it back and forth like a mischievous tea towel wielding chef with some serious downtime.
The needles began to creep. My manly DNA started firing along the hardwired neurons.
Ignorance is bliss, even when pain is involved.
The fist pump continued. The manliness ceased to exist.
I stood there, in a daze of pain induced clarity. The needles had won.
They always do.
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