|Happy Easter! From your balls.|
Then, about a month ago, the Worst. Possible. Thing. happened. (Okay, that might be a tad overdramatic. No one died or anything, but just play along.) I did the same thing! Only it was worse than when it happened to her! I mean, my girl had been slightly drunk when we did this, but this time I was fully sober. Okay, background: I drunk dialed a guy I like and made plans with him for the next night to go visit a mutual friend of ours. So, I went to his place to pick him up (Do you notice that loser-y guys never seem to have their own ride? Red flag! I think I need to pay more attention to TLC "No Scrubs"), and I waited. I waited and called him and texted him and facebooked him and waited. I waited for a little more than an hour before finally giving up and leaving him there and heading over alone. Where had my balls gone? I mean, granted, I left some slightly ballsy messages, but what did it matter? Why was I there in the first place? And why in God's green earth did I stay for longer than a freaking hour waiting!? I was a soft, pudgy rabbit. (I'm starting to think the rabbit metaphor may not be a good thing. Rabbits have a lot of sex...okay, so that's good and all, but they also probably have balls if they're doing that...do rabbits get neutered? Maybe that's what we are. Neutered rabbits. But I think that's not exactly accurate either. Fish don't have balls. Do fish have sex? Fish are coldblooded, though, and rather distant. That doesn't work either. Girls. Girls don't have balls and they get caught up in the dream of what will happen. Okay, so we're girls.
|Don't let the pig-tails fool you. I will |
knock yo' bitch ass out!
There's a radio show on NPR called This American Life. One episode, Break-Up, (and yes, this is the one I've used for my Dramatic Interp - for you non-speech geeks out there, feel free to just gloss over that part) talks about break-up songs (torch
|Something seems to be going |
wrong with this ball of mine.
I hate that confidence comes and goes like that, though. Sometimes I feel like I look really good (Today, for example, running around at home in shorts, and my legs look fan-fucking-tastic, aside from that little bit of back-of-the-knee fat. Or like yesterday, when I celebrated spring with a sundress and some guy in a white truck yelled out about that dumb "baby, you want fries with that shake?" comment. (What's the point of that? Seriously, if you're interested, stop and say "hi". Ask for a number. That's why I have a phone, people!). Then, other days I feel like I look repulsive. Some days I have the balls to speak my mind. Other days my balls have turned to string, and I'm sitting outside in my car waiting, and it's the loneliest I've ever felt.
The comfort that I get from this experience, though, is that I realize we all have these moments. At some point, we're all holding our balls of yarn wondering what happened to them. I'm just like my girl, Amanda. We're both kittens and yet we're both bulldogs. (Lions, maybe? YES! Keep to the species, AND lions have great hair! That's so us...oh, fuck it.) Amanda's still super bad ass! She's got balls to stand up to guys and to look out for her kids and to be her. I've still got balls to compete in forensics and to be me and to learn from shit like this and to blog about it and post it to my Facebook page and on Twitter and here where anyone can read it.