I am coming to terms with the fact that I have a self-destructive streak. Not anything serious and worthy of treatment, like suicidal behavior or getting addicted to Lost. Actually, it could really just be called a stupid streak.
I am coming to terms with the fact that I have a stupid streak. And it really is more than a streak, it’s more like a stripe. A thick stripe. I have a thick, stupid stripe.
This is the first Google image result for “thick stupid stripe”:
If my life decisions were a tie, it would be thickly striped with stupid, just like this one. Please picture this tie, and the appropriate emotional reactions it would have, during the following tale(s) of woe.
I always manage to willfully ruin relationships/would-be relationships with great guys who have stable personalities and few vices, who are committed and openly affectionate, looking for something serious, and not always entirely boring.
But if you are any kind of openly promiscuous musician, unemployed acrobat, emaciated barista with a 5 o’clock shadow, or, for lack of a better word, a relentless pussyhound with a thick head of dark hair, I am ready to give it all up and follow you to that dingy apartment you share with your non-girlfriend.
I have fought tooth and nail for three guys in my life, and two of them are, or were once, addicted to drugs. One of them cheated on me repeatedly–once in front of me– and not only did I instantly forgive him, but I then had to persuade him to stay my boyfriend.
The other, who also fell into some detrimental habits, tried to do the honest thing and tell me that he wanted to see other people. After fifteen minutes of screaming “SAY IT AGAIN! JUST SAY IT AGAIN AND I’LL BELIEVE YOU!” into the phone, I then reverted to just saying, “Nope, nope, nope, nope.” I shoulder some of the blame for that relationship failing.
The third, and most painful, was my 7th grade love–not crush, love–who would always look directly at my chin when he talked to me, and then ask, “Does that make you nervous?” At more than one school dance, he opted to dance with no one at all instead of with me. I still get misty whenever I hear the intro to K-Ci & JoJo’s “All My Life.”
They have a greatest hits album?! What’s on it, “All My Life” and that other song that sounds exactly the same?
Then there’s my friendships. I have one older brother, so I grew up around him and his friends. As a result, I feel that I was developmentally stinted in one aspect of the friendships I now form: I, like many women, am afraid of women.
We can be very intimidating, with our sweet-smelling trinkets and sex jargon. I have a few lady friends who I adore, but none of those relationships were instantaneous. Each one of them resulted from us being forced to spend a lot of time together (i.e. in school), or living together (i.e. roommates). I had to be brought in slowly, like a skittish colt with few social graces, and fed grain and satiating carrots.
BUT GUESS WHAT TONIGHT I FOUND THE SOLUTION TO EVERYTHING!
No longer will I sit around in this post-college slump, crunching Nerdropes in order to feel productive! No longer will I gravitate towards the skeaziest of skeazes when it comes to dating! No longer will I fear you, new female acquaintance!
BECAUSE NOW, THERE IS ROLLER DERBY!
Yeah, like in Whip It! It is the absolute coolest, and for the first time tonight, I saw a game, Bronx Gridlock vs. The Boston Blackout. This player, Bonnie Thunders, is a steel pole. She’s tall, has a BMI of roughly 3, and knocks down women thrice her size:
Every time I go to a sporting event, I realize how much I miss playing sports. I also remember that I’m obnoxiously competitive. I figure that becoming a roller derby player is a fantastic way to fix everything that’s wrong in my life. It will:
1) Force me to make friends with women, and even better, women who I am already fucking terrified of and intimidated by.
2) Help me be less prone to dating scuzzballs, because it just will.
3) Give me an outlet for all my obnoxious competitiveness, therefore improving all my relationships.
4) Be applauded for my meanness.
5) Prove to my 7th grade love that I have moved on.
So what if I don’t own a pair of skates or fully understand the rules of the game?