My left forearm is sore this morning...

 Yesterday was a bit of a day. 

I overdid it. I depleted my battery. I was done with "adulting," and wanted to shout the world apart with the "Wrath of the North," as I melodramatically call it. I do call it that. I am not kidding. Digression.

I was ready for the day. I took my meds. I had some oranges and a protein shake. I even pre-emptively cut off my sleeves, and saved them to use a handkerchief while in the car. I was ready to vote with education on my candidates and local referendum on the ballot. I was going to a new polling place! I was ready to make some money, and see what the concrete waterways have to show me. 

*Loudspeaker crackles: "We are in for some chop." *Crrch.

Fuck.

The Sun's Anvil fell upon me. All my well-laid plans were for naught at the first engagement with the sun. I responded accordingly, and took breaks through the day. 

*Score from Lawrence of Arabia swells in to audible decibel level, not the grand, elegant melody, portraying the beauty of Arabia and the Middle East in general.

USA please stop being active participants in the murder of brown people.

No, it is the thirst-inducing, perspiration-enhancing, stringent scraping sound within the strings.

I went to vote. I saw a familiar face, which to most would be a comforting sign (while I am more rationally minded, it was nice to see), my left arm started to shake, the arm with the massive wound from my childhood. I couldn't control it. I did my best to retain my composure as it felt my own body betraying my will. Sitting down at the table, I rest my left arm on my leg, and it continues shaking. 

Breathe, Matt. Breathe. This is a new sensation for you, but do not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Continue what you are here to do, and it will Passover you. I made my voice heard through my pen once again, and went upon my way. 

*cue desert heat leitmotif

I am going to need a name for my car if I'm going to write about it like a boat. I already named my motorcycle, Cecelia. Digression, again.

The beat down of a day continued, even though I reach my projected goals for trade that day. Black clouds and silver linings, come to mind here. During my afternoon break, I spent some time with friends, talking agriculture; it was an enjoyable moment. 

And then I forgot where I placed an important object. 

*cue immediate elevated sympathetic activity

I pull over, immediately decrease sensory activity, ask for help from a friend and they did the best they could. During this trek, I was helping them bring back some wooden beams. He turned to head home, as he had done what he could, totally forgetting his item...

"Your wood is in the car." He returns to grab them from the car.

"What are you doing? Get in the car. I'll drop you off." 

I'm fucking livid at everything and was ready to burn the world down around me. Thanks, Hyperactivity Disorder. 

I wanted his things out of my car reallllly baaaadly, but thought of him carrying them back home was just gross to my sense of timeliness. I dropped him off and continued my ignoble quest. I maintained my composure to retrace my steps, and I had assistance elsewhere. Like the Millenium Falcon, there are a few hiding spots in my car. I remembered a common one. Thanks, Attention-Deficit Disorder. 

And here comes the emotional crash.

I pullover in to a CVS parking lot. Alert my elsewhere assistance, who gives me a gentle chiding. I tell my friend. 

"I found it and don't want to talk about it further at the moment."  

*emoji facepalm

I return home to rest a little for the show must go on in to the evening performance/ dining rush. Mostly because I needed ice cream and specifically, Ben & Jerry's. I make it to a vast depository of it at Wegman's and make my way home.

 I do not like self-checkout machines. I do not want to check myself out. I do that enough as it is. I don't need more self-encouragement. Also, Hello there, End-Stage Capitalism! All this automation is doing great for the majority. 

My battery was on 2% and falling. I walk up to the scanner and initiate the hullabaloo. 

I forgot something. My cutoff tee was a powder blue Star Wars tree. The classic logo. 

"HE HAS A STAR WARS SHIRT!" 

A small boy shouted at the top of his lungs. He seemed awe-struck. 

I was too, my ears were ringing in a typical PTSD-Tinnitus presentation.

I asked him about his Spiderman shirt and Batman mask. If I am speaking, I am breathing.

"I like your Star Wars shirt!" His father standing right there, mentioning to the boy's astonishment my right arm tattoos, a fractured but still bound Jedi crest, a lightsaber, and a Rebel Alliance pilot helm, with TIE marks. I should update that and add a Star Destroyer because there have been a few decisive victories since then.

"I like Star Wars, and Spiderman, and Batman, and Iron Man!" The boy responded to his dad and me at the same time.

"I like those things too! Want to know one I like?" 

He stared in disbelief.

I turned my left arm tattoos.

"I like Thor!" Doing my best to not mention Pointe Break, because really, mightiest Avenger! He doesn't need to fly! He just manipulates astrophysics and will as one to follow the gravity well behind a hammer that was made by dwarves. NBD.

My battery was drained and flashing red. It was time to get home. NOW! Emotional overload was now here. My eyes were doing "moistening" things. The excited little boy and his father moved on. I stumbled my way through using the electronic interface, as the tears continue to form in my eyes. 

My mask stayed on, after I exited Wegman's. I needed to maintain my breathing practice to maintain my composure until I made it to relative safety of Das Boot, working title. 

May the Force be with you, young padawan. Always.