This? Oh yes, it was my fault.

"This is my life to live, nobody else's to read about."

We took out. Dragging our florescent colored awkward plastic kayaks from the turquoise waters, placing them tentatively on shore, within moments they would be on our shoulders, jostling back toward the put in. My legs burned, screamed from the insides, begging for water. If only I had not taken the free beer for competitors so liberally, maybe I could force them to be silent.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. It always does. As the bitter water like Crystal brand fermented liquid hit my throat a switch flipped. I suddenly forgot about the movies playing outside, free, insightful, and entertaining, but instead found a comfortable position leaning against the bar and drank. Refill after refill, my best buddy also choosing the warmth of the bar, over the adventure films in the cold. Soon my brain felt the familiar hug of the warm blanket of alcohol. The night shifted into amber tinted shades, and I stumbled into the dark, and into the many adventures of the inebriated.

 I adjust the kayak on my shoulder now, lungs struggling starved of nutrients. I made it back toward the put in, my race jersey now soaked, my feet cover in mud. The soft cool lawn, shaded in short yet bushy trees, called to me. I let the kayak slip free from my aching shoulder and followed it down toward the lawn. I left my eyes cracked open. They watched the sun slip through the shivering dark green leaves as a slight breath of wind came swirling from the south. My stomach churned, the expulsion of food the only thought on its mind. I was about to sleep, about to fall into a deep nap before the race, but the questions of some gringos kept me awake. Kept me talking. Kept me making friends.

The water is always there, it will always be there. I love kayaking. I do it all the time. Why do I need to talk about it? So I can explain something no one understands? Or so that I can show other kayakers how my balls are the size of a mature bulls'? No there is no need to talk about what has been done on water, the ones I love were there, the others that I love would really rather not hear about it. The constant banter of who ran what, and who cleaned a line no one else had, just shows the lack of love for the sport. Kayaking is my life, it is for me to live, it is not for me to brag about, worry about, or explain.

My first race lap was horrid, the second was better, faster. When it was all over, and the last racer had made it through the final gate, I lay on some rocks my kayak propping my head up, talking with my best friend. We just sat there cracking jokes and monologuing on the absurd, both our brains not back to 100% from the night.  As the sun let its gaze shift to the trees behind us, and our wet clothing no longer kept us cool, but instead caused shivers, we once again forced ourselves back into the straightjacket like confines of kayaks, and headed downstream.

That night, the disco lights blinded my eyes, the music battered my worn ear drums, the other drunk dancers stepped on my feet, and slammed into my side. My grin was the silly drunk grin of someone who no longer cared where he was but was just happy that he was still standing. Somehow I ended up crammed with eight other people in a car, trying to avoid the spinning which now seemed imminent. Finally fresh air hit my lungs, and I slowly walked toward my friend's house, my sanctuary for the night.

"One day I will have a car here, a house here, and I will never be sad again, one day."

I awoke. The world would not let me stand. My body begged for water. My muscles were spent from racing, and the abuse of drink and dance. The hung over brain, I believe, is the most pure. When the world seems as though it has dealt you death, yet forces you to live, is when the most pure thought can be found. I found I was happy, guilty, and hopeful. I found I was more in love than I first believed, I found I was more confused than I had believed, I found I was the same as those I despised, another middle class rebel, hung over.

That is my life. I try to live it as best I can. I try to constantly learn and grow. I also make sure that I have as much fun as I can juice from the day. My problems, worries, and such are not significant in the slightest, they are nothing more than what I bring upon myself. Work is the theme now. Making money to support the fun I wish to have. I often wish that huge chunks of money would fall from the sky, and I could finally replace the kayaking equipment long overdue of replacement, pay for an apartment in the center of town, a car, and a house. Dreams no more. But dreaming never pans into reality. It will be the work I put in, and the skills I perfect that will make my dreams slide into reality, not wishing. So, here I am, at the end of the world, in love with what I do.