Hey guys. I know that it’s been a while since my last post and maybe you’ve forgotten me, but my name is Julian and I used to be an integral part of your lives. Sometimes, if you were sad, you would turn to my blog and realize that life is really not that bad. Or perhaps, probably more often, you would check the blog and feel even sadder. No, I kid. I’m sure that you guys all remember me and hopefully you do so fondly. (Julian. Stop procrastinating and get to the post. Fine, fine.) So guys, now that school’s done, what are all of your summer plan- (I swear to God, you better start, or I’ll write this post myself. Ok, whatever. Here goes.)
I’ll be the first to say it: I’m not a confident person. I mean, I’m willing to chop an onion or go to the orthodontist, but nothing too crazy. Therefore, when my grade, as a party of sorts for finishing off the year, decided to go to an amusement park, I wasn’t too excited. Strangely enough, a day of enormous crowds, cholesterol-filled food and vomit did not appeal to me. However, I didn’t complain, forked over the thirty-five dollars for my ticket and got on the bus. Once aboard, I was faced with two pieces of news and knowing my luck, they were both destined to be bad. First, we were blessed with a day of ninety-eight-degree heat and secondly, yours truly found out the hard way that sweat and school-bus seats form an impressively sticky combination. We arrived and with the aid of three robust men (Actually four), I was freed from my seat. However, I was soon faced with an even more problematic situation: there were big rides and unfortunately, I was going to be manipulated into riding them.
I have a lot of phobias: heights, rats, blood and noodles, to say a few. But, none of those can compare to my fear of heights. (Wait. You’re not scared of heights, are you?) Anything more than twenty feet scares the bejeezus out of me and I’m phrasing that lightly. Yet, my friends, the supportive, nurturing people that they are (Love you guys!), dragged me to a ride called Nitro. Having just eaten, the prospect of dropping 215 feet seemed unwise. My hypothesis proved correct. Experiencing g-forces that would have made a fighter pilot cringe, I nearly revisited a lunch from 2006. The intense pressure upon my skull must have disabled my sense of judgment, as I agreed to ride El Toro, loosely translated into “The Ride of Death, Misery and Unimaginably Frightening Speed.” (It actually just means “The Bull,” but this is my blog and I can translate Spanish however I feel fit.) What’s more, not only did I go on it once, I willingly agreed to ride it a second time and in the process, suffered the most hilarious and embarrassing injury of all time.
The human body has its limitations. It is not supposed to break the sound barrier, nor is it supposed to allow for one’s chin to smack into one’s chest so hard that it leaves a noticeable mark. Unfortunately, both happened to me that day at six flags. My chest, laced with pain and displaying a magenta bruise, will forever serve as a reminder of that fateful June afternoon, where Julian Gerson suffered through an experience traumatic enough that he is allowed to refer to himself in the third person. (Only once, though. Say good-bye Mr. Third Person.) Julian Gerson says good-bye. (You do realize how many rules you just broke, right?) Julian Gerson regrets nothing.