Flip flops and parkour do not mix. This occurred to me as I sprinted toward the rock wall that borders the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art. It is deceptively low on one side, and should you ever find yourself in mid-hurdle above it, I have three words for you: sweet gum balls. Those spiny little bastards are everywhere in the fall.
My “landing” lasted approximately seven minutes and resembled what might occur if an octopus were catapulted onto an ice rink scattered with marbles. Both flip-flops were brutally ripped apart by the force of my fall.
When it was all over, I laid ass-out on the sidewalk and let out a soft whimper that built into a full-fledged sob.
My “friend” Brennan, who had been walking behind me, frowned as he concluded his phone call, “I’m gonna have to call you back.”
He pressed his finger to his phone, but instead of kneeling down to tend to my injuries, he stared, transfixed, at the yellow school bus behind me.
It’s important to note at this point that the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art is a popular destination for elementary school field trips.
Raucous laughter erupted from the packed bus. Tiny fingers poked through the windows to point at the idiot girl who had just spectacularly crashed onto the sidewalk on Oak Street.
Shoeless, paralyzed from the ankles down, and humiliated, I began to wonder if I would ever get up. Perhaps it would be best to just stay down here and live amongst the fallen leaves and sweet gum balls.
Brennan, bored by this point, scooped me up and dragged me to his apartment across the street where he propped me up on the couch with both feet elevated on two pillows atop his coffee table.
And then Fatty took over. She knew I was injured, too weak to fight back.
“Can I get you anything?” asked Brennan.
“Twisted puffed Cheetos,” Fatty whined. 
Brennan grimaced, but he ran to QuickTrip to pick some up.
What I am about to reveal will be no surprise to both the Frito-Lay corporation and anyone who has ever suffered a Cheeto addiction. After that first small bag, I went on what can only be described as a six week bender, which culminated in front of the Dollar Store in Raytown.
“Stop the car!” Fatty shouted. Huge yellow letters in the window advertised a two-for-one sale on Twisted Puffed Cheetos.
“Oh god. Really?” Brennan’s face contorted with fear and shame as we pulled up to the storefront. He had noticed not only the revolting pace at which Fatty could devour puffed cheese snacks, but also the additional girth the habit had produced.
Fatty stomped into the store and emerged moments later carrying two giant bags of cheesy poofs. She wouldn’t even let me wait until we got home to devour them in shameful solitude. No. She just ripped open the bag and went to town shoveling the cheesy, puffed corn into our mouth. And that’s when it happened. Rock...fucking...bottom.
“I fuhwl shek,” Fatty mumbled through the blob of half-chewed Cheeto mash in her mouth.
Flakes of puffed-corn carnage littered the front of my shirt. Brennan couldn’t bear look at me.
Fatty passed out, allowing me to emerge from my Cheeto-induced fugue state.
“Brennan, take these away from me.” I surrendered the chips.
“O.k.,” he said, still looking out the window.
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