Yep, I Did It Again

And yes, I totally thought about using the word "Oops" instead of the word "Yep," but #1: Poor Britney don't need that, bless her heart; and #2: I'm Southern, y'all. "Yep" is definitely the more appropriate word choice here.

So, we all know that – despite having taken ballet, jazz/tap, gymnastics, and even fuckin’ MODELING classes, not to mention DANCING PROFESSIONALLY FOR MONEY (in musical theatre, you dicks, not that other kind) – Our Miss Hoody is, shall we say… somewhat less than graceful. Which gets her hurt on a fairly regular basis, through no one’s fault but her own damn (if you can diagram that sentence, you’re prolly a redneck). For no other reason than that apparently Jesus thinks it’s funny to teach Hoody a lesson.

Well, t’other day? JC was right.

Y’see, the only one of Poor Dead Fiance’s friends who still speaks to me (other than to call me a junkie whore) has been fuckin’ INSTRUMENTAL in helping me avoid the massive Portal-esque grief spirals (BTW, the cake is a lie) that otherwise would be sucking me in far more often than they do.

Scorecard Update: This person has asked to be called “Caveman,” but I ain’t doin’ that, makes him sound dumb, the which he is not – Hoody don’t hang out with dumb. Not for long, anyway. So I have chosen to call him Zandor (look it up), because that sounds far better than any alternatives I could think of.

And because this is my blog, so I make the fucking rules, dammit.

Back to our story: On this particular day, Zandor had decided that it would be good for me to get out in the world a little, so he invited me to go bowling and play putt-putt with him and his sons (8-ish and 11-ish, respectively, I think – Gleep and Gloop for future reference (again, look it up). So off we set for a Day of Fun!

Now, here’s where Miss Hoody’s legendary lack of gracefulness comes in. You see, the night before, I had been talking on the phone and walking through the yard, and I discovered why they tell you not to walk and talk on the phone at the same time. In that I cracked my fool head against a low-hanging tree branch.

In my defense, I’m pretty used to ducking that particular branch on a daily basis, but this time it was dark and I was distracted. So I misjudged my duck and popped myself a good’un.

But when I went inside to check my head, it was just a little red mark, not even bleeding or swole up or nothin’. No harm, no foul, right?

WRONG.

Fast forward to the next morning, I’m getting ready to go out on the Day of Fun. The little red mark is a leeeeetle more pronounced than the night before, but it’s still nothing that a little Cover Girl can’t fix, amirite?

I was not right.

Off we go on our adventures. As the day progresses, I’m starting to notice more and more people are giving me the hairy eyeball. And I assume it’s because I’m white-trash yelling at attempting to help corral someone else’s children. But I’m from the South, y’all, where that’s not only acceptable, it’s EXPECTED.

So Our Miss Hoody is getting increasingly “wish a motherfucker would” and staring straight back at all these people. Rather belligerently, if I must admit, as she is wont to do.

But I digress.

I get home and I’m telling Dear Sweet Mama about the Day of Fun when she suddenly says, “What the fuck do you have on your head?”

I have no idea, but I figure I’ve somehow smeared dirt on myself at some point. But when I rub at it, it HURTS. And when I look in the mirror to check, the “little red mark” has transformed itself into a MASSIVE. FUCKING. BRUISE. Like a “bitch shoulda listened” After-School Special kind of bruise. It’s black and purple and swole up so big I can look up and SEE it.

Like it was BAD, y’all. This don’t even do it justice.

I immediately call up Zandor and proceed to read him the riot act for letting me walk around all day looking like that. His response?

“I thought you knew! I tried to mention it a couple of times, but you just blew it off, so I thought you KNEW!”

SPOILER ALERT: I DID NOT KNOW.

And I am I-FREAKIN’-RATE, y’all. I’m giving this poor soul down the fuckin’ road about how everybody kept lookin’ at me funny and how I was fixin’ to kick somebody’s ass, to which he replied:

“YOU? I spent the entire day waiting for a ‘roided-up pack of gym rats to decide to kick my ass because they thought I’d been beating on you!”

And Hooligans… If that had happened… I would have had NO. IDEA. WHY.

So anyway, love y’all, mean it. And never trust pressed powder,

HH

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