My Battle with the Ice

In the cold night, when I fall on my ass really hard, I know I'm back. Ice and dress shoes don't work. Ice and formal shoes, with a backpack and a suitcase in tow does not make a happy ending. You won't even be walking upright very long. So I fall more on the way home. I fall backwards onto my back, full on the backpack, my legs shooting out towards the street. I fall like I am drunk, or like I was shot in the chest by a stream of machine gun bullets. When I'm not falling, I am almost falling, skidding, slipping, doing a funny little dance here and there. And I can't help but cursing as traffic flys by on the dry road. Why can't these m***er f*****rs keep their sidewalks shoveled? There's at least one bastard on every section of a block I have to walk through. Whoops. There's another one. When at last I get home, the last stretch of pernicious hateful ice is on my section of sidewalk, in front of the house. Bastard that I am, I die one last time, going down, as if hit with a rock. This time, I fall in silence. I feel like throwing my suitcase into the bushes, but I can't get enough traction. Later, after I have gotten in out of the cold, I can laugh about it. And look, the laptop still works. Victory!