The couch as I think I have said is terribly as far as fashion, style, or comfort is concerned. Its sort of a collage of browns greens and pinks stitched in some horrific patternless patter that makes your eyes ache.
I am wearing my jeans, no socks or shoes, no underwear - which I stopped using back in July when I discovered the extent of Arizona heat, and my coach belt given to me by my Uncle George on my way across the United States - again - back in July.
My upper body leaves much to be desired for muscles, actually most of my body is that way, but I am not at all fat, not in the least bit. What little form I have is muscles hung on to the frame as you would throw a worn shirt up on a coat rack.
My hair is short, but growing out slightly, my face has not been cleanly shaved in a couple of days but what facial hair exists is less than 1/8th of an inch long, it is however a blood red - for sake of my irish and german heritage.
My hands which have always been my best feature are stained black and grey with oil and grease, my right thumb is stained worse than any other bit.
Around my neck hangs a silver necklace which Zack gave me the night I keeled over and withered on the floor of his apartment. An act I did again last night although I did make it out of his place before it hit me full, and with the help of Zack and Zero - both Texans - I made it to my bed where I withered around until painkillers took hold and brought the pain in my chest, a deep striking pain - like knives but also as though someone had an expander inside my rib cage and was trying to force it apart which leaves me clutching my chest and sides trying to hold it all together in vain - because it's just the muscles and my ribs aren't really expanding nor contracting.
I can just make out the loop of the Triumph logo which is tattooed across my chest. My feet tingle and my hands ache, except for my right hand pinky which is experiencing a sharpened pain which makes me not want to bend it in the least.
My teeth are yellow and stained from tobacco smoke, and my tongue is much the same. My eyes have bags below from fitful sleep, and the eyeballs themselves appear to be bloodshot.
No one would mistake me for attractive, though I once was. When the shrinks informed me that the damage that was done from some years of abuse was most likely uncorrectable and that horrible fear that strikes me down to my core and grips my heart and makes me want to curl up into a ball when ever someone wants to show any sense of intimate contact with me was never going to go away - that it can not be fixed, that this is just the way I am designed now -- that is when I stopped worrying about my general appearance. That is when I stopped trying to look good for others, when the idea of attracting anyone from the opposite sex or the same sex became more of a trouble than of a welcome relief to the loneliness.
The Royal Enfield is once again a road bike. Not a safe road bike with multiple speeds. It actually only has one working gear which there is quite a bit of effort in finding, you have to use your hand to shift from neutral into gear. But god what fun it is to ride! You have no idea. If you get used to heavy bikes, and all bikes seem heavy compared to this one, and oh how it steers, it is quite a blast to ride and will go 50 in the gear that is available at this time.
I will pull the gearbox apart sometime this week and find out where the other gears have run off to.
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