29 November, 2006


Here's an odd-ball thing for you folks to chew on.

This test, The Alternative Recreation Test, just pegged me as being one for the flying trapeze.

Only one problem with that.

I'm afraid of heights. And not just plain afraid, but deathly-ZOMG!!!~1!-heart-attack-imminent afraid. Anything under 20 feet, I can handle with no problem. Anything with a stable platform, I can handle. Anything where I can hang onto something with a death-grip, I can handle. Like rollercoasters, for instance. Sure, you're high up in the air, but there's a nice and sturdy chunk of steel holding you up from the ground and your flightpath never takes you straight down. (I am a rollercoaster fanatic, by the by. Never met a coaster I didn't like.)

Leaving myself to the unchecked embrace of gravity, however... No. Just no. I can work myself into a panic attack just thinking about it.

Of course, this also leaves out skydiving. Jumping out of any airplane not showing a sign that it is about to turn into a ball of glowing plasma is not something I would do, particularly not for fun. Nevertheless, if it was showing said signs, I'd probably jump. But I'd let everyone else go first until I could get enough testicular fortitude to achieve terminal velocity.

Terminal velocity. What an apt word choice. Then again, it's not really the trip down that scares the crap out of me. It's the sudden stop waiting for you when you reach terra firma again.

[Mostly crossposted from my OKCupid profile. And no, I'm not saying the username, but it's fairly similar to the one I blog by.]

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