So yeah, everybody gets these. If you haven’t found one on your own body, you simply haven’t been looking hard enough, and it’s probably at least six inches long by now. SEARCH THYSELF.
I remember discovering mine for the first time, growing out of the right side of my abdomen like it fucking belonged there. It looked like it came off Gandalf’s head (the White, not the Grey), several inches long and as glossy as a unicorn’s mane. I plucked it with horror, only to have it grow back again and again, the thin strand as white as purely driven snow. Now I monitor the spot with grim vengeance, razing the area as soon as it pokes it’s tiny silky head out of my stomach.
I remember a girl in my class in college who had a massive two-inch black hair emerging from her chin, like Satan’s own pube. I couldn’t understand how she had never noticed it before, but it became more clear as I watched her glance in the mirror in the bathroom. She always angled her head in such a way that she never saw the offending hair curling in the breeze. My God, had nobody ever told her? I didn’t know how to approach that situation since we were merely acquaintances, and she soon ceased coming to class altogether. Had she been strangled by her rogue hair in the night? Perhaps she looked on it fondly, stroking it gently before drifting off to sleep each night. I will never know.
So right around puberty, my body decided it could go fuck itself.
I mean, not literally. Well, maybe a little bit literally. But more like my body thought that betrayal of itself was the order of the day.
The first time it happened, I was in the kitchen getting some breakfast around 6:30 am before school. Suddenly, while in mid-sentence, I keeled over and thwaked my head against a counter before slumping to the floor unconscious. I had no memory of what had happened, but came to with my parents’ concerned faces floating above me, and a goose egg slowly forming on the back of my skull. After testing that I had my full wits about me, I was sent to go catch the school bus with little fanfare. My head ached the rest of the day, but I otherwise felt fine.
This scenario would replay itself several more times over the next few months, finally culminating in a fainting session where I stopped breathing and my mom had to call 911. By the time the paramedics arrived, I was conscious and talking, but couldn’t stand up without immediately passing out again. But I refused to go into the ambulance, and simply sat on the floor slowly eating cereal until I could get myself onto the couch.
We never really figured out what the problem was, but it seemed to be related to blood sugar. I started swallowing spoonfuls of sugar whenever I started feeling a bit out of it, which usually preceded a fainting spell. I began carrying hard candies around with me always, for a quick sugar boost on the go. To this day, I know I need some candy or soda if I start getting the “sweats and shakes,” as I call it.
It’s bizarre, but luckily the days of collapsing like a felled tree seem to be behind me.
So when I feel the tops of my feet, I have…well…horns, essentially.
These are the pins sticking out of my healing bones. After my bones were broken during bunion surgery, they were realigned and stabilized with scary-looking metal hooks. And so they’ve stayed since June, just waiting to poke up their sharp little curvy heads.
As the swelling in my feet go down, the pins are becoming more and more prominent, and are now sticking up and bruising my skin. My scar can’t fully heal while the pins are pushing on it from the inside, so they’ve got to go. I had an appointment with my surgeon yesterday to discuss the procedure, which turns out to be a bit more involved than I had anticipated.
Basically, the doctor will make a small incision over the pin, perhaps a centimeter wide, then yank on the exposed metal with pliers for all he’s worth. If he’s lucky, the pin will come out smoothly and relatively painlessly. If he’s not so lucky, the bone will have grown up over the head of the pin, and he’ll have to chip away at it until he can pull the pin free. If he’s really unlucky, the pin will have bent at some point while it was embedded in my bone, and it will be nearly impossible to remove without doing some painful damage. Then the incision will be stitched up, and I’ll have to keep my foot dry (AGAIN) for another ten days. Torture.
The doctor said this could (hopefully) all be performed under local anesthesia, though my mom, who has had pins removed from bones before, warned that it would still be plenty painful. Though injected anesthetic can numb skin and muscle, it apparently has no effect on bone, which is just bristling with nerve endings. When my mom had pins pulled from a broken finger, she said the pain was some of the worst she had ever experienced, and this is a woman who has had natural childbirth at home more than once. So…that’s daunting.
And so the nurses told me to be prepared to be put under IV sedation. Though the pin removal will be first attempted under local anesthetic, if I start freaking out, I’ll apparently be put down like an unruly circus animal. I’m really, really trying to avoid that outcome since it involves being escorted home on a Friday morning, which is a tough sell since all my friends/family work for a living.
So here’s hoping I won’t pussy out, and the whole thing will take five minutes TOPS. Or else I’ll scream and be injected with powerful drugs. Oh yeah, no pressure at all.
So I admit, the title of this post is misleading. I do not mean being “picked up” in the romantic sense. I mean being literally picked up in someone’s arms, perhaps over their head, and eventually dropped. Which hurts.
Let me explain. I’m short. Like, pocket-sized. And apparently, when people (especially guys) get drunk, they feel like trying to fucking bench press me. I don’t know why this happens, or what it’s meant to prove, but it’s happened too many times for me to ignore. I know that if people around me are wasted, I have to be on high alert, since there’s at least a 75% chance that I’m going to be airborne before the night is over.
And let me tell you, there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Saying, “No, don’t pick me up like a bag of rice!” never seems to work, and I’m too small to stop someone who is determined to lift me over their shoulder. If you have never been unwillingly hoisted by a drunk, beefy man, I can tell you that few things will make you feel more vulnerable. I mean, how rude is that shit? I don’t go up to you and leap on your back or something when you’re just trying to have a good time. “Hey, you looked like you could support my weight, so how about you CARRY ME NOW YAAAAAY!”
But nope, I’ll just be chatting, sipping my drink, and some dude will come up behind me and fucking cradle me like a baby. Usually I barely even know him, and now my drink is on the ground and I’m pissed. “Come on, don’t be a bitch,” he’ll say while digging his hand painfully into my armpit, or sometimes inadvertently (?) fondling my breast. “I just wanted to see if I could lift you.”
How about this? FUCK. YOU.
After the guy gets tired of toting me around like a damn Neanderthal, he’ll usually unceremoniously DROP ME. I’ve been dropped on tables, doorknobs, and into mud puddles. Huh, guess I was heavier than you thought, ASSHOLE.
Luckily, this doesn’t happen to me so often these days, though it felt like a fucking weekly occurrence in college. The next time you get the urge to pick up some random girl just because she’s tiny, put yourself in her shoes for a minute, and then WALK AWAY, you moronic sack of shit.
There, I feel better now. And the next stranger who tries to pick me up gets CUT, BITCH.
I spent much of my youth being terrified by dogs of all types.
A tiny yappy Chihuahua, a fluffy lap dog, a big slobbery Great Dane, it didn’t matter. I was scared of them all, and convinced I’d one day be torn apart by canine teeth.
I’ve already mentioned how I was raped by a chocolate lab, but that was not the first nor the last time I’d be humiliated by man’s best friend.
Years before that incident, I was walking in a field with a friend when a Rottweiler appeared in the distance. It advanced towards us, drool flying as it ran in a full sprint. We soon realized that its intentions were not friendly, and we broke into a run ourselves. I swear I have never run so fast in my life, and my innate fear of dogs propelled me far past my friend. I figured the slower of us would be the first target, and I sped as if my life depended on it. But our pathetic flight was no match for a full-grown dog, and he caught up with us in moments. I could hear his ragged breath behind me, but my legs continued to pump with a mind of their own. Suddenly, the breathing noises stopped, and I glanced behind me, assuming my friend was being eaten. The dog had stopped suddenly, letting us escape. It turned out that we had been inadvertently trespassing, and the owner of the land had released his dog to chase us off his property. He sicced his dog on two 8-year-old girls. The dog had been trained to stop dead at the edge of the property, and it sat there, alternately panting and growling at us.
I also had another friend growing up whose house resembled a zoo more than a home. The house was a historical landmark, and so renovations were limited by law. It had central A/C, but was heated by a single wood-burning potbelly stove on the first floor. The children spent free time chopping wood and tending the fire, and sleepovers involved shivering on the upper floor under a foot-high stack of blankets. The family had three dogs, three cats, three rabbits, and two horses. The cats and dogs ran free using pet doors, the rabbits had a hutch larger than my bedroom, and the horses lived in a large pasture. The property itself was so large that each family member had their own small motorbike they used for doing chores during the day, and there was a full-sized teepee in the middle of the yard for relaxing. I learned to ride a Pocket Rocket bike myself, and promptly crashed it into a fence my first time out. The family was friends with the caretakers of neighboring Peterloon Estate, which meant us kids got to explore the 1200 acres of land, complete with gardens, fountains, and woods. I even got to go inside the 36-room and 21-bath mansion once, which was pretty spectacular. Outside, we’d get a group of 10 kids and play flashlight tag at dusk in a landscaped area straight out of The Secret Garden.
Anyway, the three dogs at this house were somewhat…temperamental. There were two large Siberian Huskies, one of which was semi-feral after living life mostly outdoors away from the family. Named Koshka, the Russian word for “cat,” the dog frequently snapped at and tackled me, growling in my face as streams of drool dripped onto my forehead. The other Husky, Ivan, was more tame, but would chase after our motorbikes and often launch himself in front of the wheels in a sort of bizarre suicidal game. I’d wrench the front wheel to the left or right, usually causing me to spin out or crash into a bush. I burned my leg more than once on the hot exhaust pipe when my bike fell to the ground, pinning me underneath. Ivan would gambol about my prone body, yelping in excitement at the smell of burning flesh.
Sophie, a Husky and German Shepherd mix, was the most friendly and tame of the three, and was the canine that finally got me to overcome my fear of dogs. She liked to play, but was never overtly aggressive, and her mismatched eyes would look into your own with an air of curiosity and intelligence. Plus she was super cute, and since she never once tried to rape or kill me, she got an “A” in my book.