Couldn't be a Bear

Seems that my postings are getting progressively older. But fear not! I've run out of typed, old writing, so we're good. Now then, this was something that I wrote after walking around the city of Fullerton at 11:30 for about an hour and a half. What can I say? My mind wanders.

Now, the first thing that came to my mind was, There is no effing way that there’s a bear hiding in there. ---Right? But if not, what made that rustling sound? The second thing that came to my mind was, Why the HELL am I standing next to the road at 11:30 at night doing lopsided roundhouse-kicks that could not possibly help to fend off an angry bear (or equally dangerous potentially rabid squirrel) as the occasional passing driver stares at me like I’m on some kind of narcotics?
There’s an old cliche that states that, rather than age, disease, or car-smooshing, a curious disposition led to the demise of the metaphorical feline. Would that I did not possess the same inevitably (eventually anyway) fatal flaw. I told myself that walking into the largish patch of three-foot-tall brush beside the road was a bad idea; I mean, there was every possibility that there was a newly awakened hobo in there waiting to knife me and make off with my shoes... but none of us is better than our nature.
And so into danger I did go, trusting to luck and my astonishing reflexes and standing not ten feet from a fairly major road and expecting the next passing headlights any minute now. And without warning I did trip. And fall. Face first.
In my defense, the brush was rather thick, and almost to my waist, but I’ll admit that I had no business hunting grizzlies and rabid squirrels at 11:30 on a school night.
So I put my hands out to stop myself from landing nose-down in the bear-scat that I imagined coming up to meet me, because well, it’s what anybody would do, right? My hands met the brush, and kept going, down towards the ground, and I followed. I slid through the spindly-tall grasses and the dry stalks lightly scratched, among other things, my now tightly-clenched eyelids... and I kept going.
Now, there was no falling through a dark nothingness, no feeling of vertigo, nothing like that. I tripped, and then I regained my balance; the only problem was, somewhere between point A and point B I should’ve come face to face with this little thing known as the ground, because I before I even closed my eyes I’d passed the 45 degree mark with nothing to catch me.
When I finally forced myself to pry open my eyes and remove my stiffened arms from their defensive position in front of my face... well, let’s just say that no shortage of those cliche’s came to mind but damned if I wasn’t looking out for Dorothy and a flying house.