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Michael considered fate at 16:32   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment
News? What news? There is no news here.

Nevertheless, we will report that not fit to print - just (barely) fit to (virtually) publish.

It got cold and started to snow here and, though I was fearing this eventuality - or at least the cold part - it has come as a bit of a non-issue. My usual regime of light attire in the fall as preparation for the wintery weather seems to have worked wonders this season and so I have been walking through this blustery wind, over icey sidewalks, in biting cold with.. well, not so much as a single concious complaint flittering across my mental wire. Bravo.

Let's see how December treats us.

However, my sketchers - a brand I've always found a bit scketchy - that I purchased this summer in a split-decision due to my need for "brown shoes" for a wedding and also a replacement for my previous (and now oil-soaked) casual shoes, are proving none too tractable in this slippery-surfaced season. I'm talking no traction, boys, no traction. This was brought to the forefront of my (admittedly mild) woes on my walk to campus today when I passed an old man, groceries strewn about him, laid out sideways at the edge of an intersection. He was surrounded by more concerned citizens than could rightfully lend a helping hand so I did not cross the street to investigate if further help was needed - I could see him being helped up slowly, his can being handed back to him, and a group of younger folk bent over collecting his purchased items. Nevertheless, it made me think about my shoes. If I was to fall and break my ankle, crack my head, or bust a shin would I be able to accept the help of strangers? I'm a horribly cranky young man and surely this will only get worse with age. The last thing I want is help from a passing pedestrian - I can help myself, thank-you-very-much. But a broken leg? These things, though faint and far away in the dreamy depths of could-bes and maybe somedays, still float up to the surface of my thought on occassion and give me pause. How can I better equipped myself to accept the charity of strangers? How can I better offer what help I could give? Who needs my help and, when I have fallen, who will save me?

I guess in the end - broken leg or no - I can always reach for my ever-present cellphone and tap out those familiar (and now preciously ambigious) numbers: 9-1-1. While the sirens wail in the background I will reach out for my cane and, snarling visciously like a rabid 'coon in a leg trap, I will swat mercilessly at those offering a helping hand. "Away! Away with you all!"

Afterall, I want to get some services for my taxdollars.

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Check out heroecs, the robotics team competition website of my old supervisor's daughter. Fun stuff!
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