By: Josh Malett
To the man who crowd surfed into my head:
Your ass landing on my head hurt
My neck cracked four times
It’s now Tuesday and my nose still feels wonky
To the grimy folk punk fans who stepped on my feet for forty minutes straight:
To you, my feet were a doormat (F.Y.I. they’re not)
My once black shoes now brown, coated with mud from the pit
The tops of my feet feel like they received a strange spa treatment
Which only hurts,
And doesn’t release tension in a day or two like a deep tissue massage
I’ve never gotten a deep tissue massage.
I’ve never been to a spa.
I’ve never been skydiving or climbed a mountain over 5,000 feet tall or skied a double black diamond or ridden a motorcycle or been to Kansas or Oklahoma or eaten food that I’ve grown all myself or killed an animal with my own two hands or paid taxes or smoked a whole pack of cigarettes in one day
I’ve never had the satisfaction of knowing I entirely earned something of my own, that I put my blood sweat and tears into something which I wanted more than anything and then was able to sink into my couch like a goddamn American and think to myself I earned and deserve this and that everything I have and will accomplish for the foreseeable future wasn’t handed to me on a silver platter and will be harder to fuck up than succeed at.
But I have had a man throw himself off a stage and onto my head
And that fucking hurt.