It was only two-blocks away. A reasonable distance. I skated home loaded with groceries; five bags hooked around my right hand, four around the left. My fingers had started to turn purple from the constriction of the plastic handles by the time I’d reached my building. There was a group of people smoking in the parking lot while nu-metal pushed its way out of the cab of the pick-up truck they leaned against. I took another push and the urethane of my wheel screeched as I hit a pebble. The most vivid memory is the squelch of the yogurt as it burst on the pavement. I did a baseball slide through my produce, warped the loaf of bread and popped the carton of OJ. As I got to my feet I expected laughter but got only Korn. I collected what I could and threw out the rest. I cradled the survivors in my arms: A jug of milk, chocolate sauce and a bag of salt & vinegar chips–some sort of delicious destiny.