By Sean Pearson
I have this thing about long sleeves. I really just don’t like them. I guess you could call it a personal preference — that is, if your “personal preference” is to spend your day straight-jacketed into an arm-clinging, static-laden, sweat-inducing sleeve of itchy, prickling synthetic wool.
I prefer not to.
I came to this realization recently, as I began taking a personal inventory of my life and how I could better myself as a human being. I don’t actually do anything with the personal inventory to better myself, mind you. I just think it’s always good to know where you stand.
So, one of the things I like to do during this navigation to nirvana is get in touch with the many sides of me. These can include, but are not limited to: the “football me,” the “ice cream me” and the “napping me.”
This weekend was the “testosterone me,” in which I celebrated all things fearless and noble via an infusion of reflective, thought-provoking and inspiring movies such as “First Blood,” “Die Hard,” “Kill Bill” (volumes one and two), and “Fight Club.” Upon finishing the 10-plus hours of adrenaline overdose, I came to one conclusion:
I don’t have nearly enough scars.
That’s just one of many that I discovered after this educational experience. Here are a few other things I decided to add to my “to-do” list:
• Learn to sew up bicep with needle and thread
• Find my Hattori Hanzo sword
• Learn Five-Point-Palm Exploding Heart Technique
• Always keep shoes on
• Chicks dig scars
OK. So that last one’s not really so much of a “to-do” thing, but I’m thinking it will make an excellent advertising slogan when I start my own Fight Club. I haven’t quite worked out all the details yet. Mine isn’t going to be exactly like the movie. For example, we probably won’t actually throw any punches or spill blood. (In fact, we could probably call it the “mild-disagreement club,” but it’s just not as impressive.)
Don’t get me wrong. I wanted to get in there and throw down with the best of them, but then I’d have to clean up the living room when we were finished. Have you ever tried to get brain matter out of carpet? It’s no picnic.
And as far as the Rambo sewing-kit surgery thing is concerned, I really think I could stitch up a gruesome laceration with the best of them. Just the other day I pulled a pretty nasty splinter out of my pinkie — without any hydrogen peroxide. (Part of my new “living-on-the-edge” philosophy.)
It was reminiscent of Bruce Willis digging pieces of glass out of the soles of his feet in “Die Hard.” It’s a predicament he would not have been in — had he kept his shoes on.
Now all I need is someone to teach me the Five-Point-Palm Exploding Heart Technique. I’ve searched e-Bay for an instructional video, but haven’t had much luck yet. All I can find are a bunch of Crazy 88s and a Quentin Tarantino action figure.
Oh well, all this talk about fighting and suturing gaping wounds is starting to wear me out anyway. Maybe it’s time for me to get in touch with the “napping me” for a while.
Sure, Tyler Durden probably took things a lot more seriously, and would have never napped while establishing his Fight Club. But then again, I’m not punching myself in the face and pouring lye on the back of my hand, either.
I guess we each have our breaking points.
I’m still learning mine, but I do know one thing: The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club.
I’ve probably told you too much already.
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