How To Throw Punches Without Getting Hurt

(Author’s note: inspired by Lynn)


Step One: Find a worthy opponent, preferably the more feeble the adversary, the better.  Think small child or elderly person.

Step Two: Insult your opponent; find a flaw of their’s and narrow in on it.  Bad skin? “Hey, nice face, Acne McGee.”  Dressed poorly? “Hey, you look dumb.”  Low SAT score? “You know, the idea is to get INTO college, not make sure you never amount to anything, dummy.”

Step Three: This step is key, as it can go one of two ways.  You may either need to repeat Step Two to further antagonize your target, or you need to get into your fighting stance, which is feet shoulder-width apart, and arms raised up to your face and making fists. 

Step Four: Once your opponent is properly pissed off and ready to wail on you, this is when you should throw the first punch, but confuse and bewilder your foe first by suddenly standing up straight and pointing off behind them and saying, “Oh, look! A baby deer!” because you know that no one can resist a baby deer.  As your opponent looks around for the deer, this is when you strike.  A nice right hook should suffice, but since you are a terrible fighter, you miss their face and end up punching them somewhere between their neck and jaw.  This still stuns your opponent and gives you time to complete the fifth and final step.

Step Five: Run like hell. 

This has been your step-by-step guide to throwing punches without getting hurt.  I hope you’ve learned a little something during this journey, and can put these steps to good use.

How To Boil An Egg

The red LED light flashes on my cell phone; I have a new message. The old AOL “You’ve got mail!” voice sounds in my head. I smile. I love getting messages. I pick up my phone and look at who has sent me the text. It’s him. All happy thoughts dissipate and scatter.

“How long does one boil an egg for hard boiled?”

I sigh, pick up my phone and thumb my reply, “usually ten minutes or so. Take an egg out and spin it on the counter top; if it spins real fast, then it’s done.”

Seven months separated, and I am still taking care of him.

My phone flashes again. “Spin test worked. Thank you!”

“Good job,” I type back, “you can now boil an egg.”

I stand in his bathroom, in front of the mirror, and wipe the steam away in a slow circle, giving myself a porthole view of myself. I’m slowly suffocating in here, the thick fog caused by the scalding hot shower I just took lingers in the air. I half expect to hear a fog horn blaring, but I do not. I peer at myself closely so I can see my face. My glasses are off and I can barely make out my features, but I grab my eyeliner and apply it, praying I am putting it on evenly. My skin is starting to sweat from the steam and my hair is sticking to my forehead and neck. I hate that, and in a futile effort, try to brush the damp hair away from me. He knocks on the door and asks to come in. I hope he doesn’t have to pee; I’m not comfortable enough with him to have him take a piss with me two feet away from him. I tell him to come in anyway, and he stands behind me, staring at my refection in the hole I’ve made in the mirror. I smile at him in the mirror, but he just keeps staring, his eyes quizzing me behind his round glasses frames. I ask him if there is anything he needs or wants. He says yes, and walks over to the cabinet by the sink and opens it up. He reaches in and pulls out a bottle of perfume. I scrunch my eyebrows down, as I’m confused as to why he has this, but then I remember it was probably his ex-girlfriend’s and she had left it there. Here, he says, as he hands the bottle to me. Put this on, I want you to smell like her. I’m stunned by what he just said, and laugh. I turn to face him, to see if he’s joking, but his hard eyes tell me he is not. Are you serious, I ask. Yes, he says. I want you to smell like her. I grab the bottle from him and gingerly spritz the perfume on my neck and wrists. He comes closer to me and puts his face close to my neck, breathing deeply, and exhales slowly. I tense up as he puts his hands on my shoulders and whispers in my ear, you may smell like her, but you’ll never be her, and he walks out of the bathroom.

I Don’t Do Poetry

I don’t write poetry.
I have never gotten
A grasp on iambic pentameter.
Poetry eludes me, poetry confuses
Me to the point where I get
Lost in trying to read
The lines so they flow,
But alas, this always fails.

Poets, to me, evoke images
Of coffee shops and snapping
Fingers, of berets and black
Turtlenecks, of hep cats
And cool mamas.

I have three copies of
Dante’s Inferno and have not
Read through any of them.

To all the poets out there,
Thank you for doing something
I cannot do.
And violets are blue.


The day I noticed the horn growing out of my forehead, I thought, “well, shit. I guess I really AM the spawn of Satan.”

There, in the middle of my forehead, was a tiny protrusion, probably about a half-inch long. I was fascinated at what was happening. I stared at myself in the mirror, gingerly poking at the horn. I was mesmerized by it, hypnotized, even. I wonder if it held magical powers. Would people flock to me, wanting to touch it, rub it for good luck? We’ll be famous, me and my horn. Spots on the national news, maybe even a cult following. The merchandising dollars made my head spin. Visions of “Unicorn Girl” t-shirts, action figures, mouse pads, and dog leashes filled my head. I’d have to start a website, maybe hire an assistant to help me. Definitely need to hire bodyguards, as I foresee at least four assassination attempts on my life in the near future. The paparazzi will be relentless, camping out in front of my humble one bedroom apartment, itching to capture the perfect shot of me. Maybe I should call Lloyd’s of London and have this thing insured, and when I die, either donate my skull to the Smithsonian or have one of my friends sell it on eBay for no less than $2.5 million dollars.

I continued gazing at myself in the mirror, and reached up to touch my ticket out of this slummy apartment and less-than-admirable life, when to my horror, the horn fell off and rattled around the porcelain basin of the bathroom sink. My eyes wide in disbelief, shocked at how quickly my aspirations quite literally have gone down the drain. I reached down to pick up the horn, to see if I could attach it somehow.

As I picked up the horn, I became even more crestfallen.

As I held the horn in my hand, I realized that it was not actually a horn at all, but a nacho cheese Bugle, which had been my snack last night when I was lying in bed, watching the latest episode of “Hoarders.” I had fallen asleep and woken up with a snack stuck to my head.

I’m still going to try to sell this thing on eBay, though.

Of Love

Obligatory Valentine’s Day post. However, it is not a typical “love is amazing!” or “love stinks!” post. It is a subtle blend of the two, meshing together to form a “love is amazing and it also kind of stinks sometimes” post.

I have every right to be bitter about the concept of love, as I am seven months into my life without my husband–soon-to-be ex-husband.

I don’t even like the term “ex-husband.” It implies that I want him completely stricken from my record, which I admit, some days I do. I never wanted to have fallen in love with his boyish charm, his fantastic sense of humor, his beautiful brownish-grey eyes, or the slight gap between his two front teeth. I wanted to take back the last ten years of my life and avoid ever meeting him.

But then, I don’t think I’d be the person that I am today, so while the last fifteen months of my life have been less than favorable, and at times, downright unbearable to live through, I’d spend those ten years with him all over again. Despite our dissimilarities, our eventual growing into separate lives, our indifference towards each other, I still love the man. He’s a wonderful human being, and I hope he can find someone else to share his amazing qualities with–I just hope she is prepared for his downsides, as well. But that is beside the point.

The point is love.

Love, in itself, is a wonderful, splendid thing. The moment you first realize you simply cannot spend one single day without the person next to you is a feeling that is unstoppable. You want to live and breathe for this person. You want to move mountains, catch stars, and bottle sunshine and all that other happy crap. Life with this person is going to make your existence better. Life with this person is what you are meant to do.

So, you make The Commitment to them. You prove your love to them in any way, shape or form you can.

My former husband was never the romantic type, and that’s fine. He’d buy me flowers on occasion, when he thought about. He preferred to show his love in small, less noticeable ways. Holding my hand when we drove somewhere, tucking me into bed at night and singing a silly song while he did, brushing my hair out of the way when it would fall across my eyes, lying at the other end of the couch with my feet on his lap…little things like that so many people take for granted. I didn’t need garish displays of his affection, although admittedly, being a woman, a big honkin’ ring or other flashy bauble would have been nice, but we were young and barely scraping by to make ends meet. He did what he could with what we had, and that is really all I could have asked for.

And then, things change.

Outwardly, our appearance seemed shiny and glossed over to a high sheen. Inwardly, we were both struggling. Sure, we have our differences of opinion–any couple does. Our problem lied in the fact that instead of working through these little bumps in the road, maneuvering around them, we let them grow. We hardly talked about anything slightly serious in nature, and when we did, it was a long, painful and drawn-out process of me trying to coax him into talking. Very rarely was I successful in this, and more often than not, it would end with me becoming incredibly frustrated and crying for him to please try to communicate with me in some way. He would get up and leave, going down into the basement to spend hours playing video games. Oh, how I hated those fucking video games. If he spend nearly as much time and effort in our relationship as he did those blasted games…

Anyway. I’m running off on a tangent here. My point is this: love is a fleeting thing, but if you are lucky enough to catch hold of it, do so with dear life and relish every moment of it, because you will never know when you will lose it.

I am not bitter about love. Love treated me very well when I had it. And my wish for you is to do the same thing.


Eager To Please

She looked up at him, eyes wide.  His eyes were shut, so he could not see her, or the look of desperation in her eyes, wanting his approval.

Her head was buried between his thighs, his cock in her mouth.

She was so eager to please him.

She guessed it was a good thing his eyes were shut.  That meant he was enjoying what she was doing to him, right?

As if on cue, he opened his eyes and looked down at her, looked at her sucking him off.  He reached forward with his right hand and lightly touched her hair, moving her errant bangs out of her eyes.  He sighed as she continued sucking on him, and gave her a tired smile, the left corner of his mouth turning up.  He closed his eyes again and inhaled sharply.  He was going to come soon.

He was going to come in her mouth, and this would please her because it would please him.

She kept moving her head up and down on his cock, sucking away, until he finally released himself in her mouth, and he moaned loudly, his hand still on her hair, but this time, he had clutched a handful as he came.  She didn’t mind him tugging at her hair like that.  It was a sign he was enjoying himself, was relishing letting loose his semen in her warm mouth. 

She didn’t care for the taste.  Slightly salty and sweet at the same time, but she let him come in her mouth just the same.  She used to spit it out discretely, as the first time she gave a guy a blow job, it nearly made her gag.  But now, she held it in her mouth and swallowed, like a child receiving cough syrup–quick as to not let the taste linger in her mouth. 

She took his cock out of her mouth, it still hard and rigid and glistening with her saliva.  He was breathing hard from his orgasm, his mouth agape, head resting against the back of the couch.  He opened his eyes again and looked at her.

“Damn, baby.  That was intense.”

“Did you like it?” she asked. “Did I do okay?”

He chuckled a bit and replied, “Yeah, you did more than okay.”

His cock had started to return to its flaccid state, and was resting on the outside of his jeans.  She looked at it and felt the urge to poke it, but refrained from doing so.  She didn’t want to make him mad.

He brought his hand from her hair and touched her face, his thumb caressing her cheek.  She moved her head towards it, nuzzling it.

He finally tucked himself pack into his pants and zipped up.  She was still kneeling between his legs, but had rested her chin on his knee, and was gazing up at him again.

“So,” he said, “want to get something to eat now?”

“Sure, that sounds fine,” she replied.

She didn’t care what they did.

She just wanted to please him.