Body: 15, Mind: Love.

So, it seems a coup is underway in my muscles and joints. I hear random cries of “Che! Che!” between lightning-strike flares of pain from rockets sent through my legs. And arms. And back. I fear my right wrist is the renegade leader as its snarl seems the largest, taunting me into trying to lob a Molotov cocktail back.

Sinews, plotting the next airstrike. Me, unable to muster arms in defense.

All of those years learning the importance of stretching before exercise. And ignoring those lessons. “You’ll feel it when you get older, you know.” When we’re younger, we don’t exactly believe in the concept of, like, you know, getting older and stuff. And my knees are now chiding me like a family of mice, squeaking – little teeth gnawing at the bone, wind-carved.

I’ve never liked mice.

And when I decided to fight back, they came together to knock out the central nervous system. Too much sleep. Unable to resist. Chuckling maniacally while I dreamt, muscles plotted unheard-of stiffness, joints tested new flares and my complicit brain stood by, looking the other way like a NYPD cop accepting graft. I could use a few grafts at this point. There is a spy amongst us. Damn this feeble brain.

The more I punish them, the more they punish me. Who gets the last laugh? (I say, grimacing). Another volley. Another grimace. Another lob. Another grimace. Damn tennis. The battle endures.

Payback for the great cheesecake debacle of 2004 perhaps?

Bone-on-bone was how Neanderthals procured their dinner. Why should it be any better for me?

I’d love to raise a fist in defiance against the rebellion. But, I cannot form one right now.

WANTED!

Above: Renegade right fist, raised in defiance. Head of the insurrection, shrouded from the camera to maintain anonymity and avoid being fingered by the rising resistance. Likes palm trees.

Below: Left ankle, head of the foot soldiers. Known for giving the boot to those who don't toe the line. His Achilles heel is, well, his Achilles heel.

WANTED!