I hate running.  If you’ve been here for a while then you already know this based on this post…or this post. Running for me is like being a cat and having someone draw me a bubble bath. At first, I thought it was because I can taste blood when ever I run. It’s like I’m bleeding from my lungs. Then I considered the fact that I used to smoke as the reason why running for me is like the plague.  However, as we all know most things that shape our adult life can be traced back to early child hood trauma or as I call it Seventh Grade. 

Seventh Grade and my middle bully.

J. Quacking Bush the First.

As if this time in life isn’t rife with so many tortuous obstacles but the world has to give you a   J. Quacking Bush the First of your very own for all of seventh grade.

You try so hard to fit in at this time of life and every time you make a step forward into the “inner circle of cool” something makes you take about five giant steps backwards. It could be something as simple as what you bring for lunch. Or what you bring your lunch in. Why on earth would the kind of lunch bag matter for a child trying to fit in at lunch time?

Again, I ask why on earth would it matter? A brown bag is a brown bag right?
Of course a GIANT brown lunch bag would be better than the cute tiny lunch sized bags that all the other kids parents bought specifically for their cool kids to bring lunch to school in.  A GIANT brown lunch bag couldn’t cause any added anxiety to trying to blend into the cafeteria at lunch time unnoticed, could it?
It certainly wouldn’t cause a life long aversion to paper grocery sized bags that lingers on well into adult hood.
Why would it?
It’s just a GIANT. BROWN. BAG.
WE WERE ALREADY RECYCLING… IN THE EARLY EIGHTIES.
For crying out loud, my parents were just really progressive.

Lunch itself would be enough to send me spiraling off to the nurse where I would feverishly suck on the thermometer and then rub it in my hands to get the mercury to rise because trying to find a nice empty table to eat my lunch out of my GIANT paper bag was not the worst of the situation. Every lunch was accompanied by J. Quacking Bush the First staring me down and taking her wing and making a slicing motion just under her waddle. A gesture meant to get my adrenaline going, I am sure for recess, directly after lunch.

If I managed to eat my lunch I would scarf it down as quickly as possible then dispose of the evidence, evidence being the brown bag that was large enough to fit  J. Quacking Bush the First in, a thought that I wish had occurred to me back in the Seventh Grade.

*sigh* Hind sight is 20/20.

Invariably I would end up finding my way out side to the playground hearing what I thought was my heart pounding inside my head in preparation for play time. Much to my dismay it was the slow pounding of the gigantic flippers of  J. Quacking Bush the First bearing down on me. And with a quick look behind me, I was off for the better part of an hour running my fucking ass off until the bell rang.

Down hills.

Up hills.

By teachers.

Through dodge ball games.

I probably could have set myself on fire and no one would have noticed the game I was playing with  J. Quacking Bush the First. The game I like to call “Run, Run For Your Little Life Because When  J. Quacking Bush the First Catches You It’s All OVER”.

It all makes perfect sense to me now.

 Running feels like dying a slow fiery death by bully.

So there is this saying and it goes something like… “don’t wish for what you don’t want” and it’s totally a saying that I  try hard to live by because ice cream is not something I would ever want to die over so I never, ever say things like “I’m dying for some ice cream” because that would be dumb. 
Here on this blog, if I’m making fun of anything it’s me. Not you. Or them. Only me, and maybe The Dish occasionally which if your posing for this picture then obviously you have a sense of humor.

Sometimes though when you make fun of your self  it  back fires on you. Like for instance way back in October I mentioned that I may have a fang boob because who on earth would be growing teeth, much less fangs in a boob. 

*Sigh*

I should know better, what with my history with fangs and shit. *
(*not literal shit)

See I had to have a follow up mamogram six months after the Fang Boob incident and when it was over they made me wait to talk to an actual radiologist who informed me that they were following some calcifications, which sounded an awful lot like teeth,  in my FANG BOOB apparently.  And then I had to wait a whole week with these fangs before they pulled them out.
Like teeth.
In a boob.

A Fang Boob that is.

I might add that going to the dentist and having a  second root canal on top of a root canal may have been more fun. Especially since I at least took a xanax for the double root canal procedure.

They were all trying to be nice but honestly in these situations ones dignity is usually compromised severely while they are playing stretch armstrong with you and your fang boob, who by the way, decided not to bite back.

 Have I mentioned I’m claustrophobic?
Not elevator claustrophobic but like if you rolled me in a yellow blanket to make me look like a bananna and wouldn’t let me out I would totally panic kind of claustrophobic.
(true story)

So when I was laying face down with my fang boob stretched as far out the door as it could be while being squeezed flat like a chicken cutlet being yelled at to stop moving…I started crying. And then I saw that my mascara leaked all over their nice pillow case and I started crying more and when they decided it was the wrong angle and flipped me over and repositioned me two more times until they finally, two hours, later figured out how they were going to pull my fangs out I was done. But not before they put a titanium marker clip in my now fangless boob leaving me only slightly bruised with a Bionic Boob. Because wasn’t the Bionic Man full of titanium…or is it Wolverine that’s full of that stuff.

But what they found in those fangs was even better.

Nothing.

Nothing in those fangs were bad. Those fangs were tip top shape and who knows why they showed up probably just another genetic mutation on my part.

Days went by and soon Bionic Boob gave way to being FrankenBoob © what with how green and purple it eventually became and some how when they removed the fangs they may have taken out my writing mojo as evidenced by my lack of posting in well over a month.

Possibly going on two months but who’s counting?

Well, me that’s who.

And since its “Chicken With It’s Head Cut Mostly Off Season” I suspect that things will be a little desolate around here.

But I’m still here, poking around the back end.

Of my blog you perv!