Secret Hiding Place

I was thinking about something… I thought of it as I had to run to the bathroom at work today. Well I had to go for two reasons 1) I am back on track with my Evian bottle, and therefore drink much more water than my body is used to, and 2) the phones were so crazy that I had to get out. I have talked to more moron idiots than I choose to divulge. (I will elaborate later on my very intricate definition of “moron idiot”)

So I am in the bathroom, and thinking about how I am basically hiding from work, which normally I don’t mind all that much, and I thought of… paint balling. Yes, there was a time, the first and last and only time, that I went paint balling. I went with a few friends, in fact, my best friend Sean at the time, and some other two people—apparently on a date (We were like their chaperons… just 15- and not on a date…). They said it would be fun—paint ballin’ ya know, like what everyone thinks is a great activity to do on the day of prom—and then show up in a gown with welts all over… but FUN! So they give me this gun thing, far too big to carry, and looks more like one of them huge guns you could get on 007… loved that game… We played in the orange groves—which, if you live in Mesa, you know all about—and we were given about twenty seconds to hide. So, I ran around like a chicken and twenty seconds later I had my own welt, on my upper thigh, possibly bleeding. (People think this is fun?) So I kept running and just as I thought I had found a great spot behind a tree, I got another pop to my leg—same spot! So, after I shot a few balls in the general direction of where my perpetrator had come, I decided the tree looked like a great place to be. I climbed the tree and literally hid inside it for the following hour or so until I could hear all of the shots run out. I waited until I heard them call the familiar “Olly olly oxen free” (or at least I think that’s how you say it—still don’t know what it means—it’s like the all-knowing “kid code” to come out… whatever). So I tried to shoot some more of my balls, but I couldn’t hide the fact that I still had almost a full gun and they were all covered in paint with empty guns. They laughed when I admitted that I had successfully disguised my utter fear by my cover of having such a great spot to shoot from. But no really—paint ball is stupid…

I apparently am hiding in a tree from my proverbial paintballs (morons).