Bikes. Parts. Chaos.

Our Coordinator of All Things International, Fleckheimer, has broken his collar bone. It happened on the Goodbye Johnny, Don't Let the Door Hit You in the Ass ride of last Friday. From what I've heard (I was left to man the bilge pumps, so I was not there personally), it happend when a road sign jumped out of nowhere and cruelly smote him to the Earth.

Now, all the comments flying around the office center around Fleck being a dumbass and "Ha ha, you can't ride your bike or pull down your own fly for three months."

It turns out that Emily was right  - when it comes to injuries or hospitalization , we're the worst friends in the world.

Maybe, though, we just realize the inner strength of our comrades, and by taunting them or ignoring them outright, we're trusting them to harden up and get better. Maybe, just maybe, our mockery activates that deepest healing power that's in all of us. Could it be that we've tapped into something that the medical profession is unwilling to cede? That we are our own best doctors? That our bodies know what's best and that the coddling, the warm blankets, the chicken soup, and the mylar baloons are all, in reality, keeping us from reaching our potential?

Nah, it's probably that we're dicks.