a fighter

i like to think of myself as a pretty stalwart being. Someone with dukes! Someone who can fend shit off! My mother seems to think i am made of puppy sneezes and tissues, however, illustrated by the fact that everytime I leave the house, she tries to arm me with some sort of self-defense tool. It's usually mace, and it's usually attached to a keychain, but this last time she shook things up. Tried to pawn a small flashlight with the most godawful siren you've ever dreamed of hearing. There are at least 37 million reasons I don't take these things (come on, I live in SEATTLE. people aren't dangerous, they're just weeeeird.), not the least of which being, I am my usually own worst enemy. So much so that a few years ago when my aunt sprayed herself with her own mace, I was actually relieved that I hadn't done it first. The siren would have been a disaster. I would have reached for some trident in the middle of a harry potter movie, flipped that thing on and scarred a theater full of 7 year olds for life. Me hurting myself is way more probable than some skeeze waking up from his stupor long enough to steal my bus pass. Truth. "Olive, I don't appreciate it when you put your butthole on my hand." - Me, to my cat, just now Good night.