Psychotica

Dear Diary -- I'm skateboarding downhill, 50 mph or more, weaving in and out of traffic. People are veering to avoid me, honking at me as I cut them off. The hill is deepening, and my speed picks up even more. I'm totally out of control now. No helmet, no kneepads. My center of gravity is one millimeter in any direction from sending me cartwheeling into the pavement, struck from behind by a hundred cars, screeching and crunching. Don't think about it. Not thinking about it, I squat down even further on my board. I brace against the rush of air, the avalanche of sound that deafens my thoughts. Faster and faster. The wheels on my skateboard whistle against the uneven highway, wobbling as I dart between two big rigs, the tail end of a convoy hauling thick yellow tractors. I can smell their wheels, kicking up a sting of dust and pushing it into my eyes and throat. So lightheaded. I lose my balance. More tomorrow.

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