"Mine's in the shape of an egg!"
Or their nose hairs,
"My girlfriend loves when mine tickle her upper lip when we kiss; they're that long!"
Or even fat deposits,
"My buttcheeks are uneven..."
But scars, scars are acceptable. And only post-scar, as in "I got this from that time...", not scarsin-the-making, like when Maude was telling me about her recent accident.
"Yeah, I missed class because I had to go to the doctor for this burn..."
"A burn? Oh man, can I see? Is that weird that I'm asking?"
"Well, you can't really see it..."
"Oh, so it wasn't too bad?"
"No, it's bad, alright, it's just...down...there."
"Down...where?"
"Down...there."
"Down...on your thighs?"
"No, down there."
"Down...on your knees?"
"No...down THERE. Down there THERE."
"Down...OHHHHHHHH....down THERE-THERE."
"Yes."
"Ooh..."
"Yes."
"Ow..."
"Yes."
"Uh..."
"I spilled candle wax on it."
"On...it it?"
"Yes."
"Ooh..."
"Yes."
"Ow..."
"Yes."
"Uh..."
"The same thing happened to my sister a few months ago."
"She spilled candle wax on herself?"
"Yes. Down there."
"Wait...down...there?"
"Yes, down there."
"Down THERE-there?"
"Yes, down there-there."
"Ooh..."
"Yes."
"Ow..."
"Yes."
"Uh...nnnn....fortunate."
"Very."
You'd think after the first incident, they would have removed either all the candles in their house or all the vaginas. Seeing as the latter is impossible, looks like candles should have been booted off the island. Another question that irked me that I found too inappropriate to inquire is: Was the wax directly poured on the southern region? I mean, were pants worn when these candles were lit, or was something else entirely going on...?
At the time, this was just too much information. It's alright to picture some old scar on someone's body, but to picture rough, bubbly flesh on one's vagina is something completely different.
Have I gone into too much detail? I've gone into too much detail.
So the conversation arose, and I found that it was one of those rare occasions where I had absolutely nothing to say. This never happens. This...never...happens. I mean, I could have pitched in, i guess.
"Yeah, so I got this scar on my leg when I was---"
"I have a leg!"
"Oh, you have a scar on your leg, too?"
"Well, no...I just...have...a leg."
"Um...me too? Anyway, so my neighbor was throwing this stick, and he threw it right at my leg---"
"I actually have two legs!"
"You have a scar on both your legs?"
"Yes, I do have two legs."
"But...you don't have a scar."
"Nope, just got these two legs right here!"
(This is where I would begin to hit my legs to prove that they are in fact there, while also hoping that maybe if I hit them hard enough, a scar would in fact appear...)
Point being, I couldn't really contribute. I mean, I do have scars, but none worthy enough for conversation.
"Dude, so this crazy bitch at a party one time grated my face with a cheese grater, that's why I have all these little nicks on my cheeks."
"That's nothin' man, I was addicted to heroin for 12 years and so I got all these scars on my arms for shootin' up."
"Fuck you guys, when I was a baby, my finger got caught on our dishwasher and it ripped open the skin and I got THIS!"
(This is where I would show the line on my ring finger that is not even 2 centimeters in length, thrusting my hand forward as if I was about to shock my audience with its utter brutality, while Feta-Face and Trackula sat unimpressed. I would then become very defensive after seeing their bored expressions, causing me to shout things such as: "MY SCARS ARE EMOTIONAL!" and "STICKS AND STONES MAY NEVER HAVE BROKEN MY BONES, BUT WORDS HAVE SCARRED MY HEART!")
So there I was, silent and depressed, for I had realized I was a wimp. A WIMP! Oh, the horror, oh the disgrace, oh the sad realization that after years and years of thinking I was a badass, it hit me that I had nothing to show for it, no proof.
Until that night.
That night would have never occurred had it not been for the night before, a night I'd rather NOT explain due to horror and humiliation on my part, but I find it mandatory to at least summarize Night #1 in order for you to make sense of Night #2. (Not that it's going to make that much sense anyway. Alcohol-induced-acts never make sense.)
Brief Summary of Night #1
1. Went to Day One of a fest.
(I hate that word. "Fest." Shortening words is lazy and simple-minded. If you wouldn't write it, don't speak it. N on woul rea m blo i I wrot lik tha. It fuckin dum a shi.)
2. Drank a fifth of rum.
(Coconut. Bad idea. Whoever created coconut rum had his sights set on turning me into an alcoholic.)
3. Went to the male strip club for my friend's birthday.
(They get naked. They get completely naked. And no, it's not sexy. More so, it's confusing. How do they all have constant erections? Why were we the only people in the strip club? Why is one of them telling me he's a homosexual as he's thrusting on my friend beside me? Am I supposed to be turned on by 18-year-old boys wiggling their penises around to techno music? Am I abnormal for laughing at their thongs? Where the hell did my vodka go? Did I drink it all?)
4. Decided to go and surprise my on-and-off boyfriend at the time to tell him funny stories about the strip club, only to find him naked in bed with another girl.
(I don't really want to go into that. All I have to say is that's more nudity in one night than I have ever witnessed.)
5. Some kind of pea was given and I went home.
(You'll realize what I mean by that later on.)
So there's Night #1. Now, prepare yourself for Night #2.
Day Two of the same fest. Why I returned, don't ask. Along with things not to ask, please include the curiosity as to why I, yet again, drank a fifth of rum. You can also add why I have a single, black hair that sprouts from my chin every couple of months on the Don't Ask Me list.
Hairy chin or not, there I was, doing the same dumb shit for a second night in a row. Except this time, my friend randomly handed me a dildo in the middle of the night, in which I turned on and vibrated strangers from behind with for a good two hours or so. (Dildos + rum = Comfortably molesting people you don't know with sex toys that aren't yours.) Once someone shouted, "IS THAT A DILDO?" and took it from me, that fun was over, leaving me no choice but to go sit on a couch, wishing I had something else to harass people with. Along comes an acquaintance, just as drunk as I had quickly become, who starts putting his mouth on my fingers. Before he had even gotten the chance to progress to sucking my toes, On-and-Off-Boyfriend walks by, not as drunk as me and Acquaintance, but drunker.
"KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF HER! DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH MY EX-GIRLFRIEND!"
Kind of a ridiculous thing to say if you think about it, considering the word "ex" along with the events from the night prior. Having your pointer finger sucked and having your dick sucked are on two completely different levels if you ask me. But what do I know. I don't have a dick.
On-and-Off (we'll call him Lightswitch) then sprints away, screaming, leading me to decide it's time to leave. Into my car I go, and drive away I do, but not fast enough to avoid the eyes of Lightswitch.
"FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU, BITCH! YOU FUCKING WHORE!"
Now, as much as I'd like to say I just laughed and waved with a big smile while I stayed safely inside my vehicle, this did not happen, for like I said before, I have a thing for coconut.
"OH YEAH? WHY DON'T YOU COME SAY THAT TO MY FACE YOU FUCKING DICK! HUH? HUH? OH, YOU CAN'T? YOU'RE SCARED?"
"YOU GAVE ME A BLACK EYE! YOU GAVE ME A FUCKING BLACK EYE, YOU BITCH!"
"WHY DON'T YOU GO FUCK SOME OTHER RANDOM WHORE, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"
"Natasha. Natasha. Come on, leave him alone, he's drunk, and you're drunk, and none of this is going to end well. Come on."
SmartPerson gently grabs my arm and turns me away from Lightswitch, leading me far, far away. But that's when I hear footsteps moving at a much, MUCH faster pace than your average jogger.
KABOOM!
I hit the ground: I've been tackled. I've been fucking tackled. I try and get up, but my left leg won't stand straight. It's bleeding quite a bit, and there's blood on the concrete in which I was tackled into. I think I'm about to start crying, but then I just get pissed.
"YOU FUCKING PUSSY! YOU'RE GONNA TACKLE ME FROM BEHIND? WHEN I'M NOT EVEN LOOKING? YOU PUSSY! YOU STUPID FUCKING PUSSY! WHY DON'T YOU GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE AND FIGHT ME MAN TO MAN!"
...I really just shouldn't drink.
"Natasha, stop, stop. Let them handle it. Let's go."
I look over and see people holding down Lightswitch, and then one of them bite right into his nose as Lightswitch begins to scream.
...That's when I start to cry.
A few weeks later, after all the blood and pus and mystery-green-shit has all gotten out of my knee that had smacked straight onto the pavement, I realize that it's finally done healing, but my knee doesn't look the same...there's a...a red circle...and some white streaks...and...it's still there months and months later...wait...could that be...no...YES.
"It's a scar!"
And now, all due to male strippers and stolen dildos, when the topic of scars comes up in conversation, I no longer sit and think I'm a pathetic coward. Now, I audaciously rise from my chair, pull up the left leg of my pants, and arrogantly exclaim:
"SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!"
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