I often wonder how and why I get into the messes I get into. If I were shellfish I should aptly be named the accident prawn or at least the accident jumbo shrimp. This is what I get from watching Sponge Bob cartoons four hours a day. I have turned into Patrick the starfish. It is a good thing that I refrain from wearing tidy whites as a matter of personal taste: the t-brief of Bench remains my undergarment of choice.

Just recently I was standing on one of those old long-legged high stools at home because I needed to get something on a high shelf when the blasted thing simply gave, literally collapsed right out from under me. Why in Jupiter's name people even make shelves far above and out of reach when making their homes in the first place simply baffles me. As soon as I heard the pop and felt the crash I thought someone had shot me until I realized that those who generally wish me dead are all bad shots: none of them could hit a freethrow to save their lives let alone a game.

As I lay on the floor after that most inglorious spill I realized it was true: your life does indeed flash before your eyes. It was like those badly mounted flashback scenes in 1970's television and movies when everything seemed to be in sepia and everyone was moving in slightly time-stop twitchiness.

I remember when my high school section beat the bejeezus out of a taller and supposedly more talented section in intramural basketball sometime in the late 20th century. I also recall the days when I would rather watch Pido Jarencio's UST Glowing Goldies or Allan Caidic's UE Red Warriors rather than my own school's varsity; the shootouts were truly mind blowing. And to the younger readers yes, Pido Jarencio was once upon a time a legit college superstar, and yes, UST's proud Tigers used to be called the rather inexplicable Goldies, as if they were Florida retirees. I also recall short shorts and tight body-hugger jerseys. I have no doubt that this kind of sports wear would simply never do in this day and age especially on my self.

Several gallons of pain killers and some 14 stitches later I finally came to. When I saw the stitches running up my groin area I feared the worst. How would I ever be able to tell her I wanted to be the mother of my children if I cannot even produce children? Worse of all, how am I ever supposed to sit up straight or walk with a normal gait? I had visions of chaps and holsters and vests as I strode about looking like I was itching for a draw at high noon, legs splayed with trigger finger twitching.

All this was laid to rest soon enough when I was assured by one of the uniformed personnel at the hospital that the family jewels were intact and quite safe. He had seen this before said he and it all turned out for the best: the gait indeed looked funny but the children still came along. Of course it did not help my confidence when some one summoned him to sweep away the rubbish in the next room.