It was a neon lit room, with sparse out-of-date and ugly decorations. The only ones present were those with me.
My hair was a solid color of offensive orange, puffy on the sides and parted dead in the middle. My eyes were brown, chocolate almost, and I was wearing what appeared to be plastic black-rimmed glasses. My shirt was bright yellow with no pattern and dorky short sleeves and my pants were blue solids and about two inches too short. People were calling me Coach, and I'm not quite sure why. I was quite a character, to say the least.
But, man, could I bowl.
In a riverside dive bar called The Boathouse the other night in St. Joe, Michigan, I was one mean Wii bowler.
I got strikes (more than one in a row, even!), spares and the occasional good spin on the ball. The ball steered clear of the gutters, and I had power in my roll that I didn't know I could possess. I reached the incredible personal best score of 170 and did a little dance around the bar on the sticky hardwood floor.
My arm, however, the next day was so sore that I'm pretty sure I have no spot on the Pro Bowling League.
Seriously. It still hurts to wash my hair.
Something is wrong with that picture, besides the multi-colored outfit and orange split part hair.
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