I work out on Saturday mornings at my school's Fitness Center. I lift weights, do some light jogging, shoot free throws, sit in the sauna (provided there aren't creepy naked old men already occupying it), and swim.
I always swim. It is the most relaxing, and probably best part of my week. Usually I swim one lap in a sort of sloppy, desperate breast-stroke (picture a drunken Ted Kennedy swimming out of Poucha Pond), and then float on my back for the next lap, kicking my legs and thinking happy thoughts.
Today I am floating along with my head halfway immersed in the water, gazing up at the ceiling and ruminating on things like Girl Scout cookies and Panda Bears and snowmen. Happy thoughts. It is peaceful. Life is beautiful.
The radio is on. Although my ears are submerged, through the water I hear an eerily familiar guitar arpeggio. No, no, it can't be. I don't want to face reality, but I must. I must.
I raise my head out of the water in time to hear James Hetfield growl his fatuous lyrics:
darkness imprisoning me
all that I see
absolute horror
I cannot live
I cannot die
trapped in myself
body my holding cell
I am utterly disoriented as the music of Metallica thrashes both my eardrums and my soul. I lose all sense of bearing and crack my head on the edge of the swimming pool. It hurts.
Somewhere Brett Ramsey is laughing.
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