A day in the life of Peter Henning (ski_alot)
When a glimpse of sunlight comes peaking through the small opening of the shades I, Peter Henning, unravel myself from the cocoon of blankets and rise to smell of my Jiberish sweatshirt hanging in the closet. I stumble across the room, rubbing my eyes before ripping my ski outerwear from the hangers, and sprinting downstairs. At the bottom, Bruce greets me with a heart-warming smile and we walk out of the garage door in the snow covered setting. The truck sitting in the driveway is spewing a cloud of exhaust from the back, and I hop inside as Bruce begins backing out at 40 miles per hour. He whips the vehicle around in the neighbors lawn, and our ski day commences. After picking up Will Pochepan, one of my fellow members of The Jiberish Clan, we arrive at Daniel Schmidt’s house, the homestead another comrade. He struts out of the garage in his ‘steezy’ new Bloom outerwear, throws his skis and boots into the truck bed, and dives into the backseat. From the passengers seat, I’m blasting some Tupac and bobbing my head up and down as Bruce yells at me for the profane language that is leaving the speakers. But, I, Peter Henning, go on my merry way giving him a sassy remark that soon alleviates him. Will is sitting in the back playing Minecraft on my computer and is probably about to change the desktop background to something extremely immature. Daniel is staring out of the window, most likely pondering the artsy selfie he could be taking right now. Deep down, I know he’s a cool kid though, so I’m content with it. All around the truck there are high spirits, for it is the first powder day of the season, and we will soon be flying waist-deep through the trees. But not in too deep.
Around the bend in the mountain road, we see a glistening peak in contrast to the blue bird sky, and I know it is going to be a prime day on the slopes. Eight inches have fallen overnight, giving the trees on the upper mountain a frosted look. I want to shove Sunday River in my mouth, and devour it like a cupcake; but, unfortunately I cannot because I am only a meer Peter Henning. Maybe one day, when I return from Mt. Hood as a true Jibmaster, will I obtain this ability. But for now, my hunger shall remain unsatisfied. When I emerge from my deep ‘Peter thoughts’, Bruce parks the truck, we gather our stuff and run for the lifts. Will, Daniel, and I stand in the lift for the next twenty minutes, our hands numb and bodies plastered in snow, but all discomfort is masked by excitement. The lift opens and we are within the first dozen on, ready to make our way to the top. I’ve got my Saga, and of course my Jiberish, and Will has his new Canon T3i, ready to film me as I slay the park on my Armada Halo’s. Riding up, I survey the park set up like an eagle scouting it’s prey. I’m envisioning my run: triple cork 1080 to mute 1240, and a switch up on the s-rail at the bottom; all tricks that Tom Wallisch personally taught me at Mt. Hood last summer. Will looks over at me, and yells “Yo Peter, hit that kicker up ahead there,!” pointing to a jump with a 90 foot gap. “I got this bro!” I reply in a completely cool tone, making sure that I don’t lose any of his respect (on rejib). When it actually comes time to hit the jump, I’m more terrified than when I’m playing Slender; but, I decide to go anyways. The stakes are just too high for I may lose karma if I don’t. If I lost karma, I would never make it to my goal of 30,000! I approach the lip carrying considerable speed and plan to throw a ‘dub cork 1080’ as I always do. Instead, I completely undershoot the landing and fall upon the icy flat of the jump. My head makes a “ka-plunk” sound as I slam my face into the computer screen. The impact causes me to come upon the realization that I am still just playing Shredsauce in English class. I look over at Daniel, and he is sitting there paying attention to Mr. Paul like a good student. Mr. Paul asks me, Peter Henning, a question about Huck Finn and I begin to whimper to myself.
When a glimpse of sunlight comes peaking through the small opening of the shades I, Peter Henning, unravel myself from the cocoon of blankets and rise to smell of my Jiberish sweatshirt hanging in the closet. I stumble across the room, rubbing my eyes before ripping my ski outerwear from the hangers, and sprinting downstairs. At the bottom, Bruce greets me with a heart-warming smile and we walk out of the garage door in the snow covered setting. The truck sitting in the driveway is spewing a cloud of exhaust from the back, and I hop inside as Bruce begins backing out at 40 miles per hour. He whips the vehicle around in the neighbors lawn, and our ski day commences. After picking up Will Pochepan, one of my fellow members of The Jiberish Clan, we arrive at Daniel Schmidt’s house, the homestead another comrade. He struts out of the garage in his ‘steezy’ new Bloom outerwear, throws his skis and boots into the truck bed, and dives into the backseat. From the passengers seat, I’m blasting some Tupac and bobbing my head up and down as Bruce yells at me for the profane language that is leaving the speakers. But, I, Peter Henning, go on my merry way giving him a sassy remark that soon alleviates him. Will is sitting in the back playing Minecraft on my computer and is probably about to change the desktop background to something extremely immature. Daniel is staring out of the window, most likely pondering the artsy selfie he could be taking right now. Deep down, I know he’s a cool kid though, so I’m content with it. All around the truck there are high spirits, for it is the first powder day of the season, and we will soon be flying waist-deep through the trees. But not in too deep.
Around the bend in the mountain road, we see a glistening peak in contrast to the blue bird sky, and I know it is going to be a prime day on the slopes. Eight inches have fallen overnight, giving the trees on the upper mountain a frosted look. I want to shove Sunday River in my mouth, and devour it like a cupcake; but, unfortunately I cannot because I am only a meer Peter Henning. Maybe one day, when I return from Mt. Hood as a true Jibmaster, will I obtain this ability. But for now, my hunger shall remain unsatisfied. When I emerge from my deep ‘Peter thoughts’, Bruce parks the truck, we gather our stuff and run for the lifts. Will, Daniel, and I stand in the lift for the next twenty minutes, our hands numb and bodies plastered in snow, but all discomfort is masked by excitement. The lift opens and we are within the first dozen on, ready to make our way to the top. I’ve got my Saga, and of course my Jiberish, and Will has his new Canon T3i, ready to film me as I slay the park on my Armada Halo’s. Riding up, I survey the park set up like an eagle scouting it’s prey. I’m envisioning my run: triple cork 1080 to mute 1240, and a switch up on the s-rail at the bottom; all tricks that Tom Wallisch personally taught me at Mt. Hood last summer. Will looks over at me, and yells “Yo Peter, hit that kicker up ahead there,!” pointing to a jump with a 90 foot gap. “I got this bro!” I reply in a completely cool tone, making sure that I don’t lose any of his respect (on rejib). When it actually comes time to hit the jump, I’m more terrified than when I’m playing Slender; but, I decide to go anyways. The stakes are just too high for I may lose karma if I don’t. If I lost karma, I would never make it to my goal of 30,000! I approach the lip carrying considerable speed and plan to throw a ‘dub cork 1080’ as I always do. Instead, I completely undershoot the landing and fall upon the icy flat of the jump. My head makes a “ka-plunk” sound as I slam my face into the computer screen. The impact causes me to come upon the realization that I am still just playing Shredsauce in English class. I look over at Daniel, and he is sitting there paying attention to Mr. Paul like a good student. Mr. Paul asks me, Peter Henning, a question about Huck Finn and I begin to whimper to myself.
A+ Material????
