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Awful things I've learned shooting sports: Vol 2
Those ghastly puddles at the foot of a hockey bench aren't made of melted ice.
And, no,...it's not spit either.
ANSWERED:
It's snot. (yes, also spit, blood, gum...lots and lots of chewed up gum, and other unmentionables, but composition wise, the largest percentage is snot)
I know, it seems obvious now. Whenever we are cold our nose runs. Well, hockey players' noses run all of the time when they're out there. Then they sit down on the bench, press a finger to a nostril and blow right down between their feet. (Next time you see a guy drop his head down below the bench that's what he's doing...he's not adjusting his skates...well, unless
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Literature
Sixty-one Seconds
It took him sixty-one seconds to die. I counted.
The beach was only a walk away from there, and the sun was beating down on our heads and our hats. We hid under the trees and laughed. We were in love, if that's what love meant. We hugged each other, as we walked down the burning pavement in loud flip-flops and ripped shorts.
We were so close. I didn't know that that would be the last time I'd ever see him alive.
I was nervous when I told him, that if we were really in love, we would be together forever. He giggled softly, and told me forever was a long time. I knew that of course. It was too good to be true, I thought. He told me not to th
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