Balls. They tend to find my face.
I bet you find that disturbing.
The first time it happened was in first grade. I was...
What? Ew. NO! Not those balls. Sports balls. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Honestly, you people disturb me.
As I was saying, before all the perverts showed up, I was in first grade and I was playing on the playground. I'm sure I had my hair did all fabulous like, and I was looking super cute, and awesome, of course. I was jumping rope or playing hopscotch or bossing my friends around. Or maybe I was gathering up the courage to go across the monkey bars.
I don't what it was about those things, but they scared the shit out of me. Except when I was in first grade I probably didn't say things like "scare the shit out of me." I probably said something more along the lines of "monkey bars make me go poo poo in my pants," or something equally articulate and brilliant.
Basically, I was minding my own damn business on the playground, when the boys in the basketball court next to the playground lost control of their ball and it went flying over the fence and directly into my face.
Students ran to my teacher Mrs. Wiggs and said, "one of your students got hurt on the playground!"
Now before I go any further, there is something you should know about Mrs. Wiggs. That bitch be crazy.
That's not quite fair. She wasn't actually crazy, just SUPER stressed out. Like All. The. Time. It could have had something to do with the fact that she was 87 months pregnant and teaching first graders, one of whom, a delightful boy named Jesse, couldn't quite grasp the concept that popsicles don't last too long outside of the freezer. Poor Jesse never had time to finish his popsicle during lunch and would put it in his lunch box to "save it for later."
"Later" Mrs. Wiggs would lift up his lunchbox and the remains of his popsicle would come pouring out all over the floor. Mrs. Wiggs would then proceed to rip her face off.
At least that's what it looked like she was doing. She would spread her fingers on both hands, put them over her face and drag them down to her throat, digging her fingers into her red fleshy skin.
I know what you're thinking: Mrs. Wiggs was a total babe. But trust me, it wasn't nearly as attractive as it sounds. In fact, is was freaking terrifying. Did I also mention she was like seven foot eleventeen and bore a strong resemblance to an ogre? I mean that in the nicest, sexiest, she-could-be-a-super-model way possible.
When Mrs. Wiggs was told that one of her students got hurt on the playground, to which she responded, "It was SG, wasn't it?", I imagine she then proceeded to drag her hands down her face in an attempt to rip the flesh from her bones thinking F*ck My Life, first it's Jesse and his damn popsicles, now SG's face and those damn balls.
You see, it wasn't just basketballs that were attracted to my face. Soccer balls, footballs, tennis balls, softballs, all received equal face time.
Get it? FACE time.
Honestly, you guys. I'm hilarious.
This phenomenon continued throughout my life.
My freshman year of high school, I went to the batting cages. The ball machine shot the ball at a speed of approximately one bajillion miles per hour, also known as Imma Kill You miles per hour. It hit my thumb, changed directions and smashed into my bottom lip, which took no time swelling to the size of the softball that hit it. If it hadn't been for the retainer I was wearing, I would have spit a mouthful of teeth all over the ground.
My mother was horrified, but I was all, "don't worry mom, I'm a bad ass," which came out sounding more like, "dompth wotbyrh mormth, Imbph a bsadbn asshenb."
Later on in high school, I was cheering court-side at a basketball game when, you guessed it, some dumb-ass player lost control of the ball, which crashed into my nose sending it through my brain and out the back of my head.
Did the game even pause for one nanosecond to see if the sweet cheerleader needed help picking her grey matter up off the court?
I'll give you a hint. The answer is HELL NO!
I'm not really sure why I'm telling you this story. I'm sure I had a point. No doubt, a shocking twist or stunning conclusion is right around the corner, but heck if remember what it is. That pretty much sums up my life lately. I don't remember shit.
Two weeks ago I was having drinks with a colleague and at least four separate times I would stop talking and just stare at her. "I don't remember what I was going to say," I would tell her. No big deal right? Happens to people all the time. Problem was, not only did I not remember what I was going to say, I didn't remember what I just said.
She was a doll and would try to help me out, "you were saying how the vertical integration practices of the riding lawn mover industry are increasing the social capital of the riders."
Me: Oh...right...So, rainbows? They're colorful, eh?
I guess this post serves as a Public Service Announcement. BALLS: They're Dangerous.
Or maybe: BALLS: They Want Your Face
Or how about: Can't Find Your Face? Check Your Balls.
I'm not entirely sure what that one means, but it's catchy don't you think?
The point is, balls are mean and evil and dangerous and they're out to get you, so watch out! This applies to not only the balls you encounter on the field or the court, but any balls you may encounter anywhere else in life.
I, of course, do not know where else those places may be, but I'm sure you guys do, you little perverts.