The Fast Lane

It's Pickle, bitches.

Did you miss me?  Can't believe it's been exactly ONE YEAR since I started this blog.  One whole year since I've been on my own, exploring the world!  Allow me to catch you up on my adventures.

For starters, I got a job!  The pay is completely unreliable, and there are no benefits to speak of.  But it consistently funds my Krispy Kreme addiction.  And I'm my own boss!  Long story short, I passed out from heat exhaustion next to a dry rotted guitar case.  Fourteen hours later when I awoke, dried drool caked all over me, the thing was loaded with dollars.  That got me thinking.  If I can earn money asleep, think what I could make banging silverware together to the tune of SexyBack.  And just like that my income tripled.

Soon I had more money than I knew what to do with.  I was eating a dozen Krispy Kremes per day with money left over, and no means to save or invest it (I can't see over the bank teller counters).  Needless to say, I took CVS to the cleaners on the Fourth of July.

Looking back, I could have probably done without the glasses.  I had to tack them to my face with chewing gum like a nerdy MacGyver (because I don't have a nose) but I still had a good time celebrating.

As the autumn months turned to winter, it became harder and harder to stay warm.  But every now and then the Universe would conspire to make me feel provided for.  I've lived in dozens of different homes this past year.  The only problem is that they are never there for very long.  Sometimes I'll go for a roll and when I come back my home is gone.  Non-attachment has been my biggest lesson thus far.  Despite my losses, and for the sake of nostalgia, here are two of my favorite more recent dwellings:

Ironically enough, I even got to live on Columbia Dr. for a couple days (although I couldn't find anything on the 300 block.)

Merry Picklemas, jerks!

Revolutions

Today while out on my roll, I was astonished to see a very familiar sight.

Bach Bowling Supply?!  I nervously went inside and my core suddenly soared.  I was HOME!  And there....behind the counter....was PAPA!  Our eyes met and in an instant I was back in his arms as if no time had passed.

Of all the other balls, I had been his favorite.  We had a bond.  I got top shelf placement, and was always full price.  He only showed me off to the best bowlers, never the beginners.  He didn't want me stuck with an amateur.  He believed I belonged in the big leagues.  The sky was the limit, and I felt seen.  Then, after a few months, the economy tanked, I was put on the clearance shelf, and some kid in a green jacket named Anthony produced a gift card and had "PICKLE" engraved on my forehead.

Don't get me wrong.  Anthony always treated me well.  Threw me with conviction.  Buffed me with enthusiasm.  Stored me with care.  I never wanted for anything.  Until that day he accidentally left me at the bowling alley, and I decided to try and make it on my own.  And now I'm back where I started, full circle.  I can't tell you how joyous a reunion this was.

Papa put me up on the scale and I heard him murmur "14 pounds".  Wow, well four of those pounds are definitely Peanut M&Ms. 

Since I live in Hollywood now, I considered getting some "work done".

Before I left, Papa buffed me with a new crying towel that he said I could keep!  He also gave me a ball stand to carry with me in case I ever wanted to "sit still".  He looked me over for scratches and I could see concern and nostalgia in his eyes.  From the day we are delivered to the store from the assembly line, to the day he brings us to life with the drill, and bestows upon us our name with the engraving machine, to the day he releases us to our new families, Papa always loves us, just the way we are.  And if we return, full of worldly battle scars and anger and sadness and curiosity and life experience, we are always welcomed back, always at home at Bach Bowling Supply, and Papa still goes on loving us, just the way we are.  Some places and people you never leave, and vice versa - they go with you wherever you go.  For the first time in my life, I was filled with so much joy and love that I actually felt tears streaming down my surface.  I wiped them with my cool new crying towel and examined the dampness.  For a moment I marveled at the possibility that I might be turning human.  Like a modern-day Pinnochio.  That this new discovery of what love is, this connection to my past, somehow unlocked something special inside of me I didn't know I had.  I looked up at Papa.  He looked down at me with all the wisdom and wonderment of a grand creator and I felt new life roar through me.

      

A Blind Score

Before leaving Huntington Beach and heading home after my epic race, I decided to make a stop at the first gastropub I could find.  Rolling 13.1 miles entitles you to drink your weight in alcohol.  As I chugged, I couldn't stop admiring my finisher medal.

Four hours later, I rolled out into the afternoon sun, got lodged in a bike rack and fell asleep.  I don't know how long I was out, but when I awoke I found myself in a storage unit, surrounded by at least a hundred cases of Girl Scout Cookies.  (I keep forgetting how doggone adorable and kidnappable I am.)

I assessed the situation and decided I would need to sober up quickly if I was going to get out of this predicament.  As I considered my options, I downed four boxes of Samoas to help me think, followed by two more to replenish all of the carbs I burned in the half marathon, as well as to soak up the rest of the alcohol in my core.  Eleven sleeves of Thin Mints later, I had formulated a solid plan.  I would sit and wait until someone opened the door, and then roll outta there.  It was almost too perfect.  I rewarded my brilliant thinking with some obscenely tall stacks of Toffee-tastics.  

Since I had time to kill, I played a round of "See If I Can Fit In It".  Turns out I fit perfectly inside of a Lakers garbage can.  I do not fit inside of a portable heater, box spring, breastpump motor, or plastic air duct extension.

By this point I may or may not owe the Girl Scouts a couple hundred dollars.

A New Average

These last few days have been extraordinary.  I feel completely liberated.  My negative thought patterns have shifted and I feel ambitious for the first time in weeks.  Rock bottom for me was probably last Thursday, late afternoon, waking up covered in my own chemically inert puke after downing two whole Papa John's pizzas back to back.  After the puke dried, I remember stumbling into the library and finding the paperback that changed my life forever.  Unlimited Power by Anthony Robbins.  

Talk about inspirational!  Here's a guy who was a complete waste of space, living in a crappy dump and washing his dishes in the bathtub.  And now look at him!  Handsome, rich, influential, and at the top of his game!  As I flipped through the chapters, I caught the following passage on page 187 and it was as if he was speaking directly to me:

"I used to be just the way you may be now.  Pizza was my favorite food.  I didn't think I could give it up.  But since I have, I've felt so much better there's not a chance in a million years I'll ever go back.  Trying to describe the difference is like trying to describe the smell of a rose to someone who has never smelled one."

The whole tome is filled with crucial information regarding nutrition, positive thinking and how to get better results in life.  I found out that meat is filled with colon germs (pg. 184), cottage cheese is filled with Plaster of Paris (pg. 187), and that trampolining is the best aerobic activity on the planet (pg. 172).  I read the whole book in three nights!  When I finished it, I noticed an inscription from Anthony Robbins himself on the front cover:

"Sarah, Live with Passion! Tony Robbins"  

For a moment I was too stunned to function.  My new idol had personally handled this book!  But my mind was flooded with questions.  Who was this Sarah character, and why the hell would she give this book away?  What a passionless bonehead.

Immediately after finishing the book, I signed up for the Surf City Half Marathon.  Time to tackle that bucket list and attain excellence like Tony would want me to.  Since I don't own a trampoline (or really know what one is yet), I spent the whole day before the race training in the park, which felt invigorating to say the least.    

The next morning I bought a disposable camera on the way to Huntington Beach.  Here are some of the pictures I took of my first exciting race experience:

Here's me in the starting corral.

Here's me getting water.  Proper hydration is key.

Here's me rolling past Mile 9 like a boss.

Here's me basking in my glory after the race.  We each got a finisher medal and a solar blanket!  I found a nice peaceful spot on the beach to chill and watch the waves and think about Sarah, who is probably wishing she had half my initiative.

Oh shit.

Here's me right before this seagull regurgitated food into my mouth hole like I was her baby.

Another race perk - free downloadable finisher certificates!

I have to say the race itself was a true test of my strength, endurance, and mental stamina.  At times I wanted to quit.  At times I wanted to scream.  At times I was unable to move forward up a hill until someone picked me up and threw me.  But I had a lot of help and support on the course, and since this was my first half marathon, I earned an automatic PR!

Bottom Weight

Sweet cinnamon biscuits, where the hell am I?  I blacked out for a bit there.  Hello?  What's going on?   I feel like I'm filled with cement.  And that repugnant odor.....oh, good God it's me.  I reek.  I can smell my polymers decomposing.  The stench of my sweat excretions alone could asphyxiate a standard size mammal.  I am a legitimate biohazard.  WTF did I do?  

Ah, looks like I binged until I passed out again.  How positively enchanting of me.  What time is it?  I'm so bloated I can barely move.  Can someone please come find me at this FedEx loading dock and put me out of my misery.  I should just jump into the La Brea Tar Pits.  Don't look at me.  I mean...what IS all this?  What the shizz did I EAT?  Black beans and Moose Tracks?  That explains the dry heaving.  I definitely chugged the sweet bajeezus out of a bottle of pancake syrup, that much I remember.  It wasn't even real syrup, it was that artificial diet syrup that has no carbs, fat or protein.  You know what else it doesn't have?  Any bloody business being inside of me.  Yet I was feeling so incredibly down and out that it felt oddly natural seeking comfort in a bottle of cellulose gel.  

Someone once said, "No matter where you go, there you are".  And here I am emerging from an empty beer box at 2am like a stoned opossum, examining garbage for clues of my sordid activities, my solid synthetic innards struggling to balance the extra density I must now carry for the rest of my life.  Oh yeah, I can't just grab an US Weekly, retreat into a cozy bathroom for an hour and take a nice long satisfying dump like humans can.  Everything a bowling ball absorbs stays with it forever.  It's a sobering reality to acknowledge I willingly made a lifetime commitment with frozen squash that you heat up in a big plastic sleeve.  And I didn't even heat it up.  Or take it out of the sleeve.  

I'd be lying if I said this past week hasn't been a mess.  This isn't my first binge, either.  My center of gravity is completely blown.  I have no balance.  If you tried to throw me down an alley in this condition I probably wouldn't even make it to the pins.  I'd land on the boards with a thud and stop dead.  The same sort of thing that happens with chocolate Whoppers when you drop them onto a solid surface from a significant height.  

It doesn't help that I live in a city where everyone is skinny and beautiful and full of energy and kale smoothies and overpriced probiotics.  Meanwhile I find myself retreating to dark corners and fantasizing that I'm inside Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, cracking open a big bouncy ball full of that weird fruity wet jam like Veruca, and jamming that jam down my damn jam hole.