Mud and basketballs ...

Sometimes I lose myself and revert to the little tomboy who didn't scar. At least I didn't mind scars. As a child my legs continuously resembled chicken pox from all of the biking, hiking, climbing, and general mischief mishaps that I had. Now, like the apes evolving to humans, I use tools. This evening I was taking apart a broken vcr to retrieve its final VHS victim. Since the vcr was unsalvagable I decided to forgoe hunting and removing all of the small screws (with tools) and just smashed what was in my way with my hand. This action was instinctual and should have been thought out. Now with a gash in the heel of my palm - I know better. I am an adult now, not the little tomboy with short hair and muddy jeans. I write thesis papers but wish I was still in my childhood driveway shooting basketballs until there wasn't light enough to see my own hands. I used to scare my mother by riding my bike down the hill of our street with my helmet over my face, hands in the air and feet out to the side. Oh to be naive and have an inpenetratable shield of ignorance.