Lost Shoe Anthologies 001: Grey New Balance

Coach had been particularly hard on you this practice. Did you do something wrong? You, Brady Jensen, the star of the Co-Ed Centreville High School Wrestling Team, could do no wrong. So, obviously Coach just had a stick up his ass. Had his wife not blown him last night? Was his hemorrhoid leaking hemoglobules into his faded Costco panties? The cause for his rude outburst couldn’t be related to you. Just couldn’t be. You lean back in the already reclined seat of your 1993 Ford Probe … blue. Needed a paint job. Even though you’re fucking parents keep pushing a paint job (and offering to pay for it), you like the way it looks. Even if your girlfriend’s dad doesn’t like it. Really, he just doesn’t like you. Just another example of a dude with a stick up his ass. You’re a fucking prodigy. But, your girlfriend and mom seem to be the only two people lately that appreciate that fact. Your sweet, patient, status-hungry girlfriend. She doesn’t even mind that you can only make awkward love to her while she’s face down and all the lights are out. She is also super understanding that you’re too busy concentrating on note prematurely busting your meager load to touch her at all during this prehistoric dance of genitals. All this ego stroking and you forgot: the deadline for NVCC applications are today! You shake out your sweaty mop and remember to take a breath. Your heart starts pounding so hard it makes your cystic acne pulsate. But, you’ve got 6 hours before the deadline so you really don’t even have to start panicking for another 5.45 hours. Hopefully your cat hasn’t chewed through your WiFi router power cord again. That damned cat loves getting electrocuted. It’s the only thing that gives him a thrill since he’s been neutered. He’s literally got nothing to live for except for an occasional jolt from a dusty wire. Whew…. What is that God awful stench emanating from your floor boards. You lift your leg to investigate. You’re instantly hit with the pungent odor of a yeasty crotch, reminiscent of a packed locker room post-match. All those jock straps, all those sexually tense muscles; congratulating each other on a match well wrestled: “I loved how you pinned him down in the final six seconds, I almost came in my singlet!”… woah woah woah. Pull yourself together, Brady. You love your girlfriend… you love women. Women! Men are yucky. You tell yourself one more time and bring your thoughts back to the odor at hand, or nose rather. Aside from your stinking sausage, that’s not the leader of the olfactory onslaught. The smell seems to be coming from your feet. While you sit at yet another red light, you roll your window down to hang your socked foot out. A little wind at 45MPH should clear the problem right up. Just the moment the light turns green, your left foot dangling out the window, you roll into the intersection. You are unaware that a car rapidly approaches from the rear, grossly misjudging your slow advance. You glance into your rearview mirror just in time to see the car rapidly closing in, while the driver is preoccupied with a bowl of cereal. As it crunches into your bumper, launching you farther into the intersection, you feel your gray, New Balance sneaker dislodge from your fungus-ridden trotter. You also feel your tibia splinter to shards, rattling around in your skin like a bag of Mahjong tiles. There goes your wrestling scholarship to NVCC. And there goes your sneaker. 


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