i rode the back on lakeshore and now i know why it scares me

the helmet didn't fit awesome. i ganked it from the theater. it has glow tape on it, though, which is good.
i didn't think to bring sunglasses to cover my eyes because it's dark outside, so the faster we went drew tears sideways off my face. even a little snot.
i got scared a lot. i usually do when i ride them. i settle in after awhile, but every time we get to a stoplight and i relax for a moment, i can feel the giant knot of tension seep out of my back where the muscles are now sore.
because i don't and probably never will know how to drive one, i have to sit on the back while someone else does it. i don't get to control it. i don't know how to control it. and so i'm pretty sure i will die on it.

i don't mind dying on it, or dying under any other circumstances else, really. i'm rather indifferent to the possibility. in the end, i'm the only one on whom it has absolutely no effect. so i don't fear the risk, rather, i fear the process. i'd prefer that it didn't hurt, that it be instantaneous. DOA. i don't want anything mangled or disfigured, rendered useless or showing the physiological equivalent of having been run backwards through a meat grinder. call me a coward, but i don't know how i would stand up to the test of physical rehabilitation, fighting to attain a quality of life that is less than my former self. i also now fear that, in saying that, i've cursed myself to a fated accident of one form or another. i admire those who have overcome odds and fought their way back from the brink, but i can't even make myself go running every day. i'm just not a good candidate for tragedy.
pull.
the.
plug.

it shames me to think how much time and energy i put into feeling shitty about things. i do not praise myself for a single thing. i do not graciously accept praise from others for any longer than it takes me to turn it sour. i motivate myself with hateful, scornful threats and only accept claims of love with an unwashed spoonful of salt. to expect the worst makes one a pessimist, yes? but what if one uses pessimism solely to lower the standards for potential optimism? don't these crafty tactics conspire to make the author a roundabout optimist?

closest to me, i have tremendous peoples. there is a coleman lamp flickering the cavernous reaches of my doubtful soul that says you love me, that you would care if i flew off the back of a motorcycle on lakeshore, if i fishtailed into wet traffic while riding my bike without a helmet, got hung under a negligent bus while running across on the blinking red hand. believe me when i say that i am grateful you, people, even when i don't return your phone calls like i should. thank you for my super creative job that came less than one month after finishing college. for my apartment with so many windows and free street parking. for the bed i am about to collapse into because i am so tired that i'm hallucinating.
for the job interview tomorrow...