The reality is, my Mum wanted me tongueless

I am a vivid dreamer. So much so, that when I was little, and the logical part of my brain was still developing, I sometimes couldn’t distinguish between memories that my brain created while I was awake, from those that had formed while I was sleeping, in “McAwkward land”.

I swear to god that I actually hooked up with James Dean once and that we spent the afternoon reading books, smoking, taking pictures of each other and generally just being best friends… But then my prefrontal cortex kicks in and I realise that it isn’t possible that that particular memory is an accurate reflection of actuality.

The photo I took of James that one afternoon. Or is it….

We once had some family friends over. The children were all out playing somewhere, and I was inside with the adults pretending to be all grown up (I always acted years beyond my age, until the age of 20, when I started going backwards to make up for lost time). The adults were talking about something which had them all engaging in a bit of a chuckle, I didn’t get it. But I wanted to be involved so I decided to tell them a funny story that would make them all laugh and then I could join in on the laughter as well. It was my time to shine.

“Hey Mum! Remember that time when you were chasing me around the house with a knife threatening to cut my tongue out! Oh my goodness, it was so funny! Do you remember how I was terrified because I thought you were actually going to cut my tongue out, and that I hid under the mattress for hours for fear that if I came out I was going to be tongueless as a result of a brutal attack by you!”

I was roaring in laughter. However, upon closer inspection of the adults in the room, I realised that I was the only one laughing. Bullocks! That did not go to plan.

Mum, “Ummm. What on earth are you talking about?”

Yikes – awkward. Mum had to explain to me that she had in fact never chased me around threatening to cut my tongue out, and that it must have been a dream. Meanwhile, the other adults in the room didn’t know whether to laugh on account of the fact I couldn’t tell the difference between McAwkward Land and reality; or whether they should get the hell out of there and call child welfare.

A result of being a vivid dreamer is that I have always been fascinated with notions of reality, and thinking about how do we truly ever know whether our memories, or perceptions of the world, are “real” to everyone, or just ourselves?

Initially I just use to think about the difference between dreams and reality, and how it is only because of the logical part of my brain that works while I am awake that I can differentiate between memories of dreams and memories of reality. That lead into thinking – what if I only think I have a logical part of my brain that makes this distinction; and in actual fact, I still don’t get it right sometimes, and a lot of my “real” memories are just dreams?

Then, even if I have made the differentiation, what makes what happens outside of my dreams “reality”. Reality is said to be made up of real things, facts and events, but how do I ever truly know what reality is if all I know is my own perception and interpretation of those real things, facts and events? That’s when I started to learn about actuality. Actualism is the philosophical position that everything there is – everything that can in any sense be said to be – exists, or is actual.

Actual existence – fascinating!

There are plenty of theories out there about what it is for a world to be actual. My interpretation of things is that reality is our own perception and interpretation of actuality and no one can therefore ever truly know what actuality is – it is a ‘world’ that exists, but that we can only ever truly know our interpretation of. Meaning my dreams are just as much a reality as my day to day interpretations of actuality.

And I think that is where I should stop thinking. Questioning our reality too much would probably lead us down a dangerous path of multiple realities, no realties or just plain old loopy town (I feel I may have already checked into loopy town – I have a feeling you will probably agree). But questioning our reality a little has its purpose – for things like creativity, thinking ‘out of the box’, innovation and all that jazz. I think it also helps us to have tolerance towards people, because you realise that everyone just has their own interpretation of actuality, including yourself…. So who is to say that you are right, and they are wrong for example, when you have both simply just perceived the same thing in a subjective way.

As Carl Jung said, “In each of us there is another whom we do not know.” Or as Pink Floyd put it, “There is someone in my head, but it’s not me.”

Idiots on a lust potion ride

There are some pretty interesting ideas floating around above love and related matters. Including Plato’s Symposium that we are actually only half of what we use to be, individuals having once had four arms, four legs, two sets of genitals and a single head made of two faces; each either being hermaphrodite, all-male or all-female. When we refused to properly honour the gods, as punishment we were split in two, and those with a “male” nature became homosexual men; those with a “female” nature became lesbians; and the hermaphrodites became heterosexuals. Accordingly, we spend our whole lives being divided from our other half, incomplete, and thus forever in search of our other half.

But today I wasn’t thinking about love. I was thinking more specifically about what normally happens before love – crushing. Not about why we crush per se – which perhaps could be aligned with Plato’s Symposium, or perhaps Schopenhauer’s belief that it is simply a manifestation of a biological necessity. But no, what I have been thinking about today, is why, when we crush on someone, that we become more stupid, awkward versions of ourselves.

Ways we become more stupid, awkward versions of ourselves: [and when I say “we”, I actually mean “I and some of the girls I talk to about this stuff”]

– Prolonged mutual eye contact is no longer possible – Oh god, quick, divert eyes, if he sees you looking at him, he will be sure to know you thought about his chest hair last night before you fell asleep!

– In situations where you would normally be able to say something really witty, funny and/or intelligent all you can do is respond by inserting a girly giggle.

– Normal kiss on the cheek ‘hellos’ and ‘goodbyes’ become impossible even if you have managed it a million times before the crush set in.

– Paying attention and focusing on what you should be when sitting next to crush is impossible – watching a movie for example… Don’t look, but I’m pretty sure there is only 1-2 centimetres between you. Maybe if you breath hard enough at the same time he does, your chest will expand enough so that your arms will touch for a second. OH MY GOD, his elbow touched my elbow!

– You divulge too much information in conversation, making it obvious you were facebook stalking him – “How was the party you went to last weekend?” Oh shit! I saw he went to that party from facebook.

Why does this happen?! If we crushed purely for biological reasons of finding a potential mating partner, then wouldn’t it make more sense that instinct would kick in and make us more impressive versions of ourselves, in order to successfully trap our victim crushee? I realised there has to be some chemical reason why this happens; something that we don’t have control over, and therefore, nothing to feel silly about when we do things like see our crush, try and strut past all casually-sexy-like, and instead snort and trip over. Hawt.

Queue library trip and my lesson on the chemistry of attraction…

Turns out there is a culprit. This culprit is called phenyl ethylamine (PEA). This little chemical, releases from your hypothalamus when you are attracted to somebody… the molecule of lust. When PEA is released, it then increases neurotransmitters such as adrenaline, dopamine and serotonin… changing the way your mind thinks. Studies have shown that serotonin levels reach that of an OCD sufferer in the first stages of crushing… which explains the obsessive new thoughts one experiences of said new crush.  As these chemicals are the physical form of thought, once these change, so too does your minds ability to think as it once did pre-crush.

Thus, explaining the more stupid, awkward versions of ourselves. Crushee touches you during seminar, dopamine releases, much like that of a cocaine addict, and you get a feeling of reward. Your body realises that if it touches its crush again, a similar reward will be felt, therefore conditioning it into a form of addiction really!

But wait, there’s more! Said library trip also taught me that this PEA chemical, lust potion, has an expiry date – the body just stops producing it! Most say 18 months, some say up to 3 years, but the things that freaked me out, is the fact that this attraction potion has an expiry date! Introducing the bonding stage…

Let me tell you a little story about the prairie vole, another mam mal that has sex for fun as well as taking a fancy to a life partner [not that I’ve ever had sex for fun…]. In one study, that these little prairie voles were subjected to, the male voles were given vasopressin (ADH) suppressors, their bond with their life partner deteriorated almost immediately and they lost their sense of devotion. They did similar studies on rats where they suppressed the release of oxytocin and as a result, the mother rat immediately disowned its child. Conversely, when a virgin rat was injected with oxytocin, it found comfort in nursing over non-related spawn [haha – virgin rat].

If I was injected with an oxytocin antagonist

Then comes the extrapolation that both ADH and oxytocin are vital in the following stages that move a crush into a love and life long bond. Apparently oxytocin is released during an orgasm (in both males and females) and during labour (in females only, incase you didn’t release that men don’t give birth). Which also explains why people develop a bond once they start having sex.

So next time I act all awkward in front of crushee I’ll merely explain to him, “Don’t worry, that’s just phenyl ethylamine kicking in. If you weren’t in the room I would be a much cooler and wittier version of myself right now…” His phenyl ethylamine will then inevitably kick in at that precise moment and the attraction will be in full momentum… idiots on a lust potion ride.

Don’t worry, be more pessimistic

According to Seneca, anger and frustration arises from certain rationally held ideas about the world; ideas that are far too optimistic. Such that when we are too hopeful and optimistic about something, when things don’t go our way, we feel self-pity and injustice, and tend to get angry (shit hits the fan). So basically, we get angry because we have this nice little notion that things should always go our way, and when they inevitably do not, we get pissy.

Seneca suggested two things to stop this from happening: be more pessimistic and lower your expectations.

“What makes us angry are dangerously optimistic notions about what the world and other people are like.” Whence “our greatest furies spring from events which violate our sense of the ground rules of existence”. Seneca faults our thinking for this by assuring us that it is better to be prepared for the worst, for the worst is surely possible. Yes, yes it is Seneca.

Seneca, what are you looking at and why are you naked?

It sounds like a pretty negative way to live your life right? Wake up and straight away tell yourself, “The world fucking sucks. I am going to have a shit day with a capital S, and H just for good measure. My friends are definitely not going to message me back when I text them today, my rabbit is definitely going to bite me, and my morning coffee is going to taste like burnt dog balls.”

Luckily, I don’t think that was quite Seneca’s intention though when giving out his advice. I am naturally a very optimistic person, but I can definitely see the advantages to incorporating some pessimistic outlook into my life. Basically, what he was trying to say is that we should always be prepared for the worst, but that doesn’t mean we can’t hope for the best. It just means that when things don’t go our way, we will be prepared for that and having already realised it was a likely outcome, know that in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that big of a deal… resulting in HAPPY people, rather than ANGRY people! [I totally made ‘happy’ high and pleasant sounding in my head, and ‘angry’ low and evil sounding in my head when I wrote those words – I hope you did the same thing when you read it, if not, go back and read it again].

Imagine this… You are walking into work and walk past a coffee shop and notice a cute guy serving. You tell yourself that you must have your morning coffee that very instant and so even though you have no idea how the coffee will be, you go in. It has nothing to do with the cute guy you noticed.

Scenario 1: You expect the coffee to be great, because it should be and anyone serving you coffee should know that you deserve nothing less than fantastic coffee. Cute guy hands you your coffee and you wink (or in my case cute guy now thinks I have Tourette’s) as you leave with your morning coffee. You take a sip. “What is this shit!” “This tastes like my beans were roasted in dog shit in a flaming house, full of pigs, because pigs stink, and so does this coffee!” Queue anger and frustration – “I hate the fucking world!”

Scenario 2: You hope the coffee will be great, but you realise that you are trying a new place and not everywhere makes good coffee, so you will be taking a bit of a risk. The risk is worth it because there is still a chance you will get good coffee and either way you can see the cute guy up close and work some magic. Cute guy hands you your coffee etc. “Grose. As it goes, this coffee is pretty bad.” You put your coffee in the bin and think, “Oh well, I will just get another one at the usual place and at least I was able to practice my sweet moves on the cute guy.” Queue getting on with life and still being happy – listen to new Brodinski song, Let the Beat Control Your Body, and bop your head away down the street.

I hope that helps clarify things for you. But now that you are on the same page, let me take you to the next one…

Seneca draws our attention to our ability as human beings to reason; it is reason that gives us the advantage to see what we can change and what we can’t. We may be unable to alter certain events but we’re always able to change our attitude towards them. Our ability to change our attitude equates to freedom by allowing us to not have to fight against something we can’t change anyway, and to be able to just go along with life, no matter what curve balls are thrown our way.

I personally don’t actually have a problem with anger. But what I do have a problem with is fear, and after a little session of thinking and philosophising (naturally with a glass of red wine and a cigarette after I had turned down socialising to be alone on my balcony) I decided that Seneca’s advice could equally be applied to situations involving fear, and not letting said fear ‘hold you back’. I’m a genius right!?

Well, as it goes [sorry for all the “as it goes” references, I’ve been watching too much Gavin and Stacey], my theory only worked for some fears and not others. And what I worked out is that I can group my fears under two different types, what I will creatively call Fear Types No.1 and Fear Types No.2.

Fear Types No.1 (FTN1): fear induced by a perceived threat to the safety of your physical body; basic survival mechanism type responses to specific stimuli. For example, fear of big fuck off Australian spiders, unnaturally legless and wretched snakes, and Chucky (the antagonist of the Child’s Play series and the world’s most evil villain ever).

Fear Types No.2 (FTN2): fear induced by a perceived threat to our emotional stability and/or ego. For example, fear of rejection by a crush or potential employer, being embarrassed for saying something stupid, and no one laughing at my really funny jokes.

Seneca’s advice works for FTN2, but not for FTN1. And not because I think people reading my blog must be stupid, let me give you a couple of examples to prove my point. I love examples.

Fear of rejection by a crush

In my last blog post I wrote about the cute waiter I gave my number to (yes, the one I ruined things with by telling him that I like crocodile jerky – but clearly I’m too cool for him). He was the first (and so far, only) guy I had ever handed my number out to. In the past, I was never able to make such confident driven actions, for fear that the whole thing would go down something like this… I walk up to a nice guy, give him my number and try and act all cute and shit, maybe say something funny to make him want more. He takes the coaster with my number, looks at it, looks at me, laughs and says, “I’m sorry, but are you serious?! See you later alligator.” (And I would be all sad, because clearly he likes alligators so would have probably been impressed by the fact that I like crocodile jerky. I should have written that down next to my number). Or simply that he takes the number and never calls back.

However, insert a little bit of Seneca into the situation and all of a sudden, handing out my number isn’t prevented by fear anymore! I tell myself, before I have given it out, what is the worst thing that can happen? [see above]. I then tell myself, “Well if that is the worst that can happen, can I handle that? YES – because you’re a strong mofo who gets on with life no matter what!” Therefore, I go into the situation prepared for rejection (which isn’t even that bad after all) because the reality is that I will very likely be rejected. But big woop! – There is nothing to lose! That is how I managed to hand out my number.

So basically, if you are prepared for the worst case scenario, and realise it isn’t actually the end of the world if worst case scenario happens anyway, then if in fact said worst case scenario happens, you will be OK, get on with life and try again next time. High five!

Fear of big fuck off Australian spiders

A couple of weeks ago, McBestie and I were at home putting our faces on and getting ready to go out for a night of partying. I can’t remember why, but I left the safe haven that was my bathroom and merrily skipped along to the beat of the music into the lounge room. What I saw to my left, only a few meters away was the following…

Yes that is a real spider and yes that is my lounge room in the background (OK, so maybe I just don’t want to poison my blog with a picture of a real spider)

The picture may be depicting a slightly larger spider to that of the one that was actually in my lounge room, but only slightly.

My body literally leapt sideways into the wall and I frantically ran towards McBestie’s room in a panic and informed her of our situation that was inevitably going to lead to impending doom. Either the spider was going to eat her guinea pigs, my rabbits, McBestie and myself (and since it would have been the spider that swallowed us, and not the other way around, swallowing a bird to swallow the spider would have done f’ all, hence we were going to die); or we were going to have to quickly grab a few precious items and get the hell out of there and let the spider become the new possessor of our awesome apartment (McBestie is also terrified of spiders – because she is a normal human being).

I rang a friend who I knew wasn’t scared of spiders (so must not be a normal human being) that I thought would be close by and asked her if she could come over and deal with the spider and save our lives. McI’mtoobusytoosaveyourlife wasn’t able to come over, but told me all I needed to do was grab a plastic container, put it over the spider, drag a lid underneath and then take the spider outside and free it.

That is where I tried to insert a bit of Seneca into the situation. I told myself, “OK, what is the worst thing that can happen – I will approach the spider and it will leap off the wall, onto my head and bite it off and I will die.” I tell myself, “Well, if that is the worst thing that can happen, THERE IS NO FUCKING WAY I AM GOING NEAR THAT SPIDER!” I try again, “What is the second worst thing that can happen – I will approach the spider and manage to put the container over it, the spider will move underneath, I will freak out and pass out, causing the container and the spider to fall on top of me and the spider will land on my boob and eat it off and I will have one boob for the rest of my life.” I tell myself, “THERE IS STILL NO FUCKING WAY I AM GOING NEAR THAT SPIDER!”

In the end, Seneca’s advice didn’t help me in that situation, but instead the random neighbour whose door we knocked on came over and saved the day.

No matter what, when your fear is totally justified and exists as a survival tool, preparing yourself for the worst will not help you overcome the fear, because the worst is DEATH!

So, no, I will not stop leaping from the toilet and charging out of the bathroom every time I flush, because there is no way in hell I am hanging around to be brutally murdered by Chucky when he climbs out of the toilet after being disturbed by my poo being flushed his way.

Why don’t boys like girls who like crocodile jerky?

So when it comes to boys, I can be pretty awkward….

 

Guy leans forward to say goodbye with a kiss on the cheek… Wait a second, he’s coming in for a kiss on the lips… What to do, OMG! Quick need to distract him and avoid awkward kiss moment… “So this blue fence behind me, it’s new. This week.” Guy, leaning back, “Ummm, cool. Ok, see ya.”

“Bye.”

Awkward kiss moment avoided – success! Wait… I think I wanted to kiss him. Shit.

 

So that was only about two years ago. Backtrack even further, to my first boyfriend when I was eleven…

 

Walk on to school bus. OMG, Boyfriend is on the bus, and there is a space next to him, I guess I have to sit in said space. Awkwardly sit next to Boyfriend. Yikes, Boyfriend’s arm is going around me. Need to pretend I thought of something really funny in my head and lean so far forward his arm falls away.

“So, um, like I want to do stuff.” Innocent eleven year old me replies, “What do you mean ‘do stuff’?”

“Well you know, like kiss and stuff. And if you don’t want to then I don’t want to go out with you anymore.”

ARGHHHHHHHHH!!

In hindsight, what a dick!

 

So yes, I’ve always been awkward and what the kids at my school use to refer to as “fridgid”. But luckily, I have some pretty sweet moves and know all the right things to say now that I am of age.

 

Queue story from a few months ago.

 

I’m in a new bar, not sure why there are men and women lining up for the same toilets. Cute waiter walks past, “Excuse me, are these the toilets? There are men in here too!”  Cute waiter proceeds to take me to a more suitable bathroom [a bathroom for awkward fridgids like me] via a lift. OMG, I’m in the lift by myself with cute waiter boy. Say something funny and cute…. “Hi. My name is McAwkward. What’s your name?”… “So, like, I have two pet rabbits. They are pretty cute. Been working here long? No? Cool. Yeah. Like stuff?”

It’s true. I have two pet rabbits. Old spinster rabbit lady in the making.

I decide that I must have cute waiter boy. I will kiss him too. How do I make this happen?

 

I go back to the bar a week later and “accidently” meet him again while I’m waiting in the toilet line. Great, he thinks all I do is go to the toilet. Oh well, he probably digs that. With liquid courage flowing through me, I write my number down on a coaster with my name and decide that I will give it to him before I leave. I feel really cool doing it too. In fact, I was cool – I was wearing my black boots. I accidently bump into him again in the toilet line, awkwardly say something about needing to go home soon [like he would be concerned about such a thing happening] and give him the coaster.

“So, I wanted to give you my number. I’ve never done this before, so don’t think I’m crazy or anything.” He says, “Well I guess that makes me lucky then.” (Thankfully, my artistic licence gives me permission to edit slightly what I actually said, which may have been a wee bit less cool).

 

I did it! I totally made a move on a cute boy and successfully lead him to believe I am not crazy, on account of the fact that I told him I wasn’t. Finally, success!

 

I even got a message from cute waiter boy and did a bit of the ol’ text messaging back and forth… Chuffed that I had gained the courage to give my number to someone interesting and cute, and heard back, I then felt a bit of pressure to keep being cool and totally not awkward. No, I wasn’t a child anymore, I could play this game… without any awkwardness! Queue the moment I thought sending the following message would be really witty and funny.

“I like crocodile jerky.”

 

Cricket. Cricket – the sound of no reply.

 

Woops.

Hunted

 

I was recently going through my “life bag” – a box full of things I made, wrote or drew or things that simply remind me of my life – and I came across the following. So this post is compliments of 14 year old me.

 

Breathlessly I ran towards the distant hills,

My lungs gasping for want of air.

Loose stones slipped beneath me,

As I blundered across the unforgiving terrain.

I was desperate to escape my predator’s wrath,

Desperate to simply survive.

 

The pounding of my footsteps filled my delirious head,

This cut and run theory wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

“Run,” Mum had said,

“If you ever think that he has found you, just run!”

Laughing, I had told her that he could never find me.

I had been painstakeningly covering my tracks,

I wouldn’t be found by him, not by anyone!

 

The wind whistled around me,

Lifting the branches of the ancient ghost gums.

On such a beautiful night I had danced with a boy,

A boy I had once trusted and felt safe with.

Now that boy hunted me as if playing a childish game.

Madly I zig-zagged across the field,

Guided by little moonlight filtering through the clouds.

The dark night threatened rain and the cool wind chilled me,

I ran to the hills, my only safe haven.

 

Suddenly I was falling,

Crashing to the ground with a heavy thump.

The dust round me stirred then settled once again,

Feeling nothing of my terror as the hunter neared.

Leaning forward I could see there was no escape,

This time I was well and truly caught.

I rested my head against the warm earth,

Waiting to receive the touch confirming my deepest fear.

I had failed,

I raised my head anticipating my punishment.

 

“Tag. You’re it now.”

My armpit hair, my greatest accomplishment

I am currently mourning the loss of my lush armpit hair – which was single handily saying ‘fuck you’ to society. Although, it started off not so much as an act of defiance but rather an act of I can’t be arsed shaving. What was initially to be just a week, maximum two, of having hairy pits, kind of accidently turned into two months. Take that society – BAM! During this two month break up with a razor I witnessed my armpit hair go through a spikey stage, only to surpass it and then turn into soft lush hair. A bizarre thing then happened… I developed a proud sense of achievement at having grown my pit hair so long, pretty much taking every opportunity to say, “Hey there, check out how long my armpit hair is!” [Whilst secretly hoping someone would say how disgusting it was for a woman to have hairy armpits so that I could give them a lecture in equality, society norms and so forth]. Eventually, I also developed a very irrational attachment to my pit hair – dreading the day that I knew would ultimately fall upon me, whereby I would need to remove the hair I had so carefully and tenderly grown. That day was two days ago. I went out in a sleeveless dress for the first time in two months, and the time came therefore to shave.

Needless to say there were tears. As I ran the razor over my armpits [again and again because the hair was clogging up the blades], I was torn between looking, so that I wouldn’t cut myself, and looking away, so that I didn’t have to witness the dreadful separation of my lush hair from the safety of my pits. I guess in time the pain will get better, but for now, I find myself constantly feeling sad and I have been quite distracted by the whole ordeal that basic things, such as walking and just being a functioning human being generally, have become quite the feat.

This afternoon I had to catch a bus to the airport, whereby I would be flying away from my sister, McCool, and home alone. With the loss of my pit hair on top of the impending physical loss of my sister from my personal space, I was rendered a retard. With the bus having started up and minutes away from departing, McCool had kindly gone ahead of me to put my big suitcase on the bus, and I was in a special kind of way, “running” behind, donning my fur pimp coat, with a smaller suitcase which was created with one purpose and one purpose only – to make me a fool [The stupid thing never does what it is supposed to, that is to wheel in a straight line by my side, and so often forces me to have to make stupid jokes like, “Haha, there is something wrong with the suitcase, and not me! Ha, ha, oh…” to people walking behind me at airports].

So there I was, about two metres away from the bus driver and the ticket collector, both standing at the bus door, giving my sympathetic looks as I ran towards them, on account of my naturally unco’ running style, when the following then occurred in slow motion: my left leg went forward; my right leg attempted to go forward, but got caught on the rogue suitcase; my arms went flapping about all around me; I ate a banana; my mouth made a ‘noooooo’ movement; saliva dribbled from the corner of my mouth; and I then fell flat on my face.

Of course the people who witnessed my fail at life were considerate and asked whether I was ok. When McCool realised she had missed my stack, she proclaimed, “Oh my darling sister, are you hurt, here let me help you with that and take my arm as you limp to the seat dedicated for old people and disabled people – which is you my dear.” Psyche! Rather, what was proclaimed was, “What!? I missed you stacking it! HAHAHAH! You fell in front of everyone?! Gold!”

We then realised we had a few seconds to say goodbye and with that we quickly hugged, kissed and confessed our undying love for one another (apparently it was cute – the bus driver informed us of this as she watched the outplay). I then got on the bus, alone, but instead of crying instantly like I normally do, I kept making these weird awkward giggle noises for the next ten minutes while other bus riders looked at me concerned. Then I cried, and when I went to hold my armpit hair to console me and make me feel not so alone in the world, all I felt was smooth bare skin, and with that harsh reminder, I cried harder and snorted out loud.

I am aware that this story will probably cause a lot of men to fall in love with me, so just be careful fellas not to knock each other over as you all come running towards me. I prefer my men in one piece.

Boys – I suggest you try and run like this when you come running for me, as I’m almost certain that no injury could result from such gracefulness