I let strangers practice strangling me

I just want you all to know how much time and creative effort went into this featured image. Look at this collage! Let me break it down for you because I know it’s a lot to take in all at once.

So you know how in basketball games people hold up a sign that has the letter ‘D’ on it and then a sign with a fence painted on it when they’re encouraging defense? Or a real fence if you’re that die-hard about your imagery.

Well because I went to a self-defense class I made a pictogram of myself, the letter ‘D’ with a bunch of ‘D’s’ in it (get it? D, as in dick? But I wasn’t going to be crass and use real dicks so I used images of classy dildos, then I went down a rabbit hole of paying for stock photo images of dildos and I thought to myself this can’t be a good use of my time) and then a picture of a fence. 

You’re so welcome. 

“OK, are you the bad guy or am I the bad guy this time?” I asked the 38-year-old man breathing heavily in front of me.

“I don’t mind fighting you off,” he said with a shrug.

“Personally, I prefer being the strangler,” I said.

This all sounds very sexual. Let me explain.

This past Saturday I went to my first self-defense class and it was awesome. I have now perfected my ability to strangle people. My throat is sore and my wrist is bruised from being dragged up and down the mat, but I think I can successfully whoop some ass if needed.

Well, we didn’t really learn how to whoop ass, just protect ours. Hence, the self-defense.

This is when I left the story to go make a collage of myself and dildos. This was explained earlier so stop judging me, Samantha! She’s my imaginary frenemy who plays the mean cheerleader in my dreams. She’s very effective at motivating myself.

I am really good at staying on track with this post.

ANYWAYS (she says with a heavy sigh and an eye roll) I had wanted to take a self-defense class for years but never got around to it.

I had this small fear (that was actually a very large fear fueled by Law & Order SVU) that I would be attacked and all I would think about while it was happening was “if only I had taken that self-defense class before this”.

Kinda like how I keep carrying this fear that I’ll suddenly need health insurance really badly and I’ll wish that I had it like right now. Like right now. *cough, cough* Literally, cough, cough. Someone give me drugs.

So I finally signed up and went. I already feel immensely better having some go-to techniques in case someone lunges at me.

I have had my own experiences with aggressive men in the past ranging from frustrating to scary to traumatic so it is a great relief to have that small amount of knowledge.

Unfortunately, today while I was at the gym I had an uncomfortable experience with a man who thought it would be funny to follow me around and get as close as possible to me while making eye contact.

Eventually, he cornered me in a less populated area of the gym and I darted around him while he was momentarily distracted. I immediately left the gym.

My initial feeling was shame and then guilt for feeling ashamed. I spend so much of my free time researching women’s issues and the moment I am confronted with a bully I ran away.

I don’t know if it was the right thing to do. Maybe I shouldn’t have left and confronted him or gone to the front desk. I was torn between the feminist and traditional lessons I’ve been taught.

Do I stand up for myself because I am a strong and independent woman?

Or do I ask for help because the person behind the front desk happens to be a man and maybe this man will listen to another man?

Do I leave because I know whatever I say to this creep will not change him?

Do I stay to make a point that he can’t intimidate me?

Because he did intimidate me. He made me feel small and aware of my body in a place where I was trying to take care of it.

The self-defense class taught me how to get out of a stranglehold and how to remove my arm from various tight grips, but it did not teach me how to defend myself from people like him.

The cat-callers, the wolf-whistlers, the gawkers, the ones who don’t touch but want to.

It is disappointing. And yes, I make dildo-based collages, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to feel safe at my local gym.

Xoxo,

Funny Girl

 

Fear can go suck balls & other eloquent epiphanies

Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway was one of the many, many self-help books I would stare down in my mother’s bookcase when I was a kid. This book eventually came with me to my college dorm where it would continue to torment me as a fresh adult.

Instead of accepting that books like this were not torture machines in the form of paper but in fact, actually were self-help books, I took them each as a personal challenge.

I was crippled by the fear of starting anything in case I failed. It wasn’t until a few months ago where my ego finally agreed that I fail all the time. Almost every day. So failure wasn’t even that special.

Miss my mouth while drinking = Fail

Follow the five-second rule = Fail (You are eating off the ground! You can do better.)

Ignore important email until it was way too late to respond = Fail

Tell myself today is going to be productive then watch hours of Netflix (and I mean hours) = Fail

These tiny failures did not lead to my imminent death. Neither did slightly bigger failures.

Receive a rejection letter from a magazine = Fail

Didn’t tell my mom happy mother’s day = Fail

Forgot my best friend’s birthday = Fail

Missed the deadline for a dream job application = Fail

I survived that too. Of course, there is guilt and possibly tears, over way larger failures but unless your failure was smoking 6 packs of cigarettes a day for 20 years or that you refused to wear your seatbelt because it wrinkled your freshly dry cleaned dress then most likely you won’t die from it.

But if you do die at least your dress was wrinkle-free and you looked like Snow White in your coffin. It’s the little things that truly matter.

I am terrified right now as I type this but I think I’m finally understanding some of those self-help books that used to haunt me. I am literally experiencing fear right now and doing it anyway.

The idea of starting this website and publishing very intimate details about myself onto the internet was both ill-advised by many (including that public speaker who would come to your high school and warn you that everything you post will come back and bite you in the ass and no one will hire you and you’ll live in your parent’s basement forever and no one will love you so don’t even think of updating your MySpace account, Jessica) and frightening to me but for some reason I did it anyway.

I am only two months into Girls Aren’t Funny and each month individually had over 100 unique visitors and close to 500 views of people possibly refreshing the page. Honestly, whether you think that is good news or not, personally that way exceeded my expectation. I legit assumed even my mom wouldn’t read it. So thank you, thank you so much.

Right now I am researching for Girls Aren’t Funny’s Modern Feminist Project podcast and it is just another layer of scary. My stomach lurches when I see famous women get trolled on Twitter and I want to hide under the covers. Why would I want to join the conversation if that’s literally the best thing that can happen to me?

Literally, the best thing would be if I became successful in my endeavor to answer some of life’s goddamn stupid questions as a woman who wants to do good by other women and then some loser named Trevor69 calls me fat.

And you know what? I’m excited. I’m fucking stoked. Bring it on, Trevor69!

Again, if you have any interest being interviewed on the podcast or have anything you’d like to share about your experience as a ladyfolk (oh god I regretted that immediately) please reach out through the comments, the contact form or via our gaf.submissions@gmail.com.

All this overcoming fear is making me hungry. I’m going to go eat Mexican food, bye.

 

Would you like a clown nose?

“Do you have any kids?”

The cashier waited patiently for my answer.

I scanned my body. I still get ID’d at restaurants and bars. I don’t look old, do I? I mean I guess I could’ve had kids by now. I technically have had the capability for years.

“How about cats? Do you have any cats?”

I scanned myself again. Am I already at the point of no return? Where my option is either kid or cat? How do I explain to this woman I have neither and I still have a hard time taking care of just myself.

“No, just me,” I said but with a peppy voice to ensure I was not sad/lonely/pathetic because I’m not but it still made me strangely defensive.

“Oh okay, I just have a box of clown noses I’m trying to get rid of.”

She didn’t explain herself any further. I assumed it was originally a fundraiser. For clowns.

I said I’d take one for myself so she gave me two as if I have two noses or I was lying the whole time about the kid/cat I may or may not have.

I sat in the car with the clown nose but it made it hard to see while driving. And even worse than that it forced me to become a mouth-breather and no wants that. Especially my possible kid/cat.

On an unrelated note that I will forcefully mesh together: I had a flashback to when I was in kindergarten. Birthday kids had to lay down on a long roll of construction paper and then the teacher drew a line around the current birthday kid’s body. Like a crime scene.

Maybe it was to teach us about our own mortality. Maybe it was a therapy tool for our teacher.

Then the rest of the class would write nice things about the birthday kid inside the lines of the body. Because that’s what I wanted on my birthday. A bunch of sticky kindergartners writing adjectives all over a symbol of my body. Maybe this is how Jesus feels when people take communion. I probably just offended somebody.

Moving on.

I volunteered to cut the construction paper above the kid’s head. The last kid in charge of the scissors cut some hair in the process so I was watched intently.

My teacher spoke gently about how to hold the scissors and I rolled my eyes internally.

How old did she think I was? Four? Well, I was five, lady, and I was familiar with arts and crafts.

Right before the ceremony was to begin (I promise my mother assures me we weren’t in a cult and this wasn’t a school in a Lifetime movie) the child lay down on the crinkly paper and the teacher methodically drew around his body.

As the ink dried in between his fingers my arch nemesis (not really but it makes it more dramatic) chucked a marker at me. I was outraged. I was the scissor-carrier, the cutter, the one-that-released-the-paper-from-the-rest-of-the-paper. How dare he?!

So I threw the scissors at his head.

Ok, I threw a wooden block but the scissors would have been more thematic.

The block hit our teacher in the back of the head and the sound of marker against paper squiggled to a stop.

“Who did this?” she seethed with the block in her hand.

I stepped forward to apologize and be forgiven quickly because I was such a big person for admitting my mistake.

The scissors were taken away and I was sent to a corner to think about what I’d done.

I thought to myself, “I will never forgive any of them and I will remember for years the shame they have caused me. My children will one day know this story.”

Here I am almost two decades later with no kid or cat to share this tragic tale too.

So I offer to you my woes and an extra clown nose. You’re welcome.

Discussion questions:

  1. Why are clown noses funny?
  2. What happened in your childhood that you could turn into a Lifetime movie?
  3. Don’t answer that second question unless you were in a cult. Lifetime only wants cults. Give up now.

 

 

 

Modern Feminist Project: How to make decisions without destroying progress and other challenges of womanhood

This picture is a representation of the lightbulb moment I had when I thought of the idea for this project, except instead of it going off above my head I kinda had to slam myself into it. METAPHORSSSS!

Whether you believe me or not, every day when I make a decision I anxiously go through a checklist of whether this will affect my fellow woman.

“I really like these shorts but they’re a little short and I don’t want people to think I’m slutting it up.”

“Wear these shorts so little girls can too!”

“That makes me uncomfortable.” 

“Forget the haters! They have no right to comment on how you dress!

“Then again you are walking into a stereotype about college girls.”

“You’re not even a college student anymore!” 

“Do you even want these shorts anymore?”

“No, but not because society talked me out of it!”

“Yeah! Tell yourself that!”

And that’s just a conversation I have in my head about shorts! That doesn’t even begin to cover big decisions like career moves, marriage, motherhood, etc.

Then I looked up the book The Feminine Mystique and guess what, it’s over 50 years old! I need something a little more updated that can help me navigate the challenges of womanhood.

This lead to the realization that I have no idea what I’m doing (big shock) but that I have skills I paid a lot of money to fine tune in the form of a journalism degree. Therefore I plan on interviewing and researching as much as I can about making the common and not-so-common decisions that ping-pong you back and forth between traditional and feminist values.

After reading an inspirational book by Elizabeth Gilbert (no, it wasn’t Eat, Pray, Love! She’s written other books! Leave me alone) I gathered the courage to jump into this project.

Let’s call it, “The Modern Feminist Project” or “How to be a feminist in modern society” or even “What the fuck does feminism mean to me, I just want a cheeseburger”. The last one is a little long so we can use an acronym (WTFDFMTMIJWAC). Ah, that’s better.

Basically, I am young and scared but ready to answer the big questions in life. But I’d like a little help. I’m needy like that. So here I turn to all the women I know and don’t know for advice.

As a woman, I want to make decisions, not necessarily as a woman, but as an individual. Sometimes I can feel trapped in the borders of feminism when by definition there should be no borders to our equality.

A woman should be allowed to stay at home with her child or work full time based on her decision without being held accountable for traditional or feminism values.

A woman should not have to cover herself nor be shamed for covering herself. She should dress based on her mood in the morning, her religion, the weather, the trend of the day. Whatever way she comes to these decisions they are hers and hers alone.

Let’s reframe the idea of feminism to what it was originally intended for. The freedom to make decisions based on individual needs and wants, not whoever is yelling at us the loudest. 

All that to say, I am hopefully starting a podcast soon. I am trying to interview as many women as people about topics ranging from liking the color pink to rape culture. Anything from the frivolous to the incredibly serious.

Please reach out to me via comments or through the contact form if you would like to participate in the project. You have something valuable to add. It is common to experience some form of imposter syndrome but I guarantee you I find your opinion important. Your experience is of value to all of us.

Be brave and share it publically or contribute anonymously and we’ll come up with a sexy pseudonym like, “Anonymous Anteater” or “Jenna Jingles” or “Tipsy Tina”. Just message me with your mild amount of interest and we’ll determine a way that works best for you to participate in the conversation.

I am only one woman, with one voice, and I want it to get loud in here.

Also, (and this is the most important thing ever) if you have any brilliant ideas on what to call this podcast please leave your suggestion in the comments. Otherwise, it will be WTFDFMTMIJWAC and no one wants that.

I’ll be posting more information soon.

Cats, wolves, cows, oh my!

My brilliant and highly amusing aunt, Deirdre Whyte, submitted this tiny story of hilarity that I will now share with all of you. If you do not find it relatable, it may be because you don’t live in the countryside of Dublin, Ireland and that’s okay. She doesn’t want to live there either. 

This evening on the way home, I’m all bright and breezy strolling down the road toward my parked car. Walking past a gas station, a white van pulls out behind me and I hear ‘mooooooooooo’.

So used to catcalls and wolf whistles through my life I roll my eyes and think ‘that’s original’.

Ten seconds later I realize there’s a trailer on the back of the van – full of cows.

Oh, how I laughed. So much I had to stop in the middle of the street doubled up. Ah, you had to be there.

If you have your own story, light anecdote or personal essay, submit them to gaf.submissions@gmail.com. Then we can all laugh at you/with you. It’s cheaper than therapy/wine. 

xoxo,

Funny Girl

What if we just played Kanye’s Graduation instead of the actual graduation song?

Yesterday I went hiking with Nick and our friend, Marisa (with one ‘S’) and it nearly killed us. It was seven miles roundtrip and we left in the afternoon while the sun was high and dangerous. Every single step of the way I wanted to give up. Put a pin in that.

*erratic segue*

I am filled with fear and excitement. I want to simultaneously throw up and eat a lot of cake at the same time. I am freaking out with all of the possibilities before me. It has finally hit me that me deciding to forgo getting a job directly after graduation to travel the world doesn’t have to end here.

Well, okay yes my savings were running out so it technically needed to end, but the metaphor didn’t need to end.

I’m only 22 so I recognize that I’m in the fairy tale head-space of “the world is my oyster” and an “a dream is a wish your heart makes” so I don’t need an angry 39-year-old to run in and crush me right now with cynicism. I get it. I’m young and naive but I want to take hold of this power and see where it takes me.

Many of my friends graduated college in May and we’re all trying to figure out what our next steps are.

A high percentage of my friends graduated as nurses (I think ahead) and are more than happy to take care of our sick and injured. Others graduated with the question of, should I go to graduate school, was this theater degree as bad of an idea as my parents said it would be, should I never have trusted my 18-year-old self with deciding to pay all this money for a degree I may never use?

It’s scary and usually expensive business (without any actual business because we’re all unemployed).

Luckily I still feel pretty good about my degree in journalism and mass communication, and my certificate in creative writing only makes me that much spicier.

Every day I wake up with newfound optimism or crippling anxiety that makes me want to cry and throw childhood stuffed animals at a TV playing The Office because it only reminds me that I do not have an office to go to, nor any crazy but lovable co-workers to call my own.

I don’t even have access to childhood stuffed animals because I’m not even staying with my own parents. So I’m not even doing the “living at home in my parent’s basement” thing right. Where is my basement? Are you my mother? Did anyone read that book as a child? Can someone relate to me and stop my annoying rhetorical questions?

are you my mother.jpg

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Barnes and Nobles applying for jobs and reading all of the books in the “Fresh graduates” section as well as one cookbook to read recipes about chocolate chip cookies when I feel sad and/or hungry.

Where was I going? Oh yes, feeling optimistic about my future. At least in this brief moment.

So anyway, Nick, Marisa and I were braving nature yesterday and as we were walking back down the trail I recognized two things:

  1. Horse poop is a good marker for finding your way back
  2. We’ve already gone through this shit, literally

All this to say, every one of us, no matter how young or old has most likely gone through some shit. Whether it was literal horse shit or crappy life experiences, but we can keep pushing on. At the end of the trail there will be a car that can drive you to Sonic and there you will be rewarded with a sweet, sweet Cherry Limeade served by a teenager in roller blades. Another metaphor for success.

If you’re still following what I’m saying, we can do this.

We can do this.

We can do this.

“Awkward family moment” she says

I’m just going to get right to it. Nick bought bulk condoms. Well, he bought condoms in bulk. They weren’t bulky.

He thought,”Hey, we’re a couple who is sexually involved with each other and I don’t want to impregnate/possibly give you diseases I may or may not have but those sex ed videos scared me about everything so I’ll just buy a lot of condoms at once to save money like buying toilet paper in bulk.” Except the thought was more erotic. I hope.

Maybe he is just so practical that our sex lives are decided on a budget. We are still searching for jobs so I wouldn’t put it past him.

Anyways, you’re probably wondering why am I sharing this very personal and practical decision with you dear people? Because apparently, it is not just between us anymore so I might as well let you in on a terribly embarrassing moment so maybe one of you will have words of wisdom or sympathy.

We’re staying with Nick’s parents right now to get our shit together after our big adventure in Europe. So Nick sent the condoms here. To his parent’s house. Do you see where this is going?

The package arrived in a giant box for some odd reason. For some other odd reason, the package was addressed to his mom and arrived on her birthday. Are you cringing with me?

As we were preparing for her birthday dinner, just chopping away, she put the box on the counter.

Nick said, “Hey, I’m waiting for a package, that might be mine”.

“It’s addressed to me though.”

“Oh okay.”

Oh okay? This was the response ringing in my ears as the packet of bulk condoms were pulled out and put on the counter. Like a shit ton of condoms.

“Were you waiting for condoms?”

“Yes,” I squeaked like a teenager caught with weed. Or condoms, I guess.

“Awkward family moment!” she said.

I should’ve left it at that, but then I said,

“I mean, do we at least get points for being safe?”

Because that’s what I wanted to do, continue the conversation. Let’s just extend it into a full Health class lecture. In my panic, I lost all ability to maintain normalness and I could only think of condoms being rolled onto bananas by strangely calm teachers.

This led to the three other thoughts:

  1. Do teachers throw out the bananas afterward or do they end up as an ingredient in their mother’s famous banana bread recipe?
  2. Does the banana bread taste like dick?
  3. I want banana bread
  4. Not because it may or may not taste like dick

Since this moment I’ve been coming up a list of better responses to the situation:

  1. “Oh don’t worry those condoms aren’t for sex, we’re hosting a water balloon fight later”
  2. “Nicholas! You’re cheating on me? You know I refuse to have sex before marriage.”
  3. “Those aren’t for us, we’re actually donating those to Planned Parenthood because I’m a good person who supports women’s reproductive rights.”
  4. Run away, simply run away

Now every time we go into the guest bedroom together I am distinctly aware of how she may be thinking we’re having sex when we’re not even having sex. I need non-sex noises to play while we’re in there. There’s no way we could be having sex if there’s just a soundtrack of dolphin and whale noises.

But hey, if it does it for you, don’t let me get in the way!

Ok, I’m gonna go now and eat birthday cake. Because this happened on her birthday. Her freaking birthday. So sorry, so very sorry.

Update: The full haircut story

So I realized after I posted about the nice guy who cut my hair, I realized I was so distracted by the fact that he wasn’t a creep that I almost forgot all the other stuff that happened.

I decided to update the post because after I talked to Nick I realized it was a pretty unusual experience.

When I walked into the salon it was basically empty. The secretary said, “Tom, will cut your hair today” (let’s call him Tom (even though I won’t refer to him by name after this) because pseudonyms are mysterious and mystery is sexy). He walked over and introduced himself. The first thing I noticed were the Satanic stars on his elbows and his shaky hands.

I thought, this could either be a very good haircut or a very bad haircut. You can decide for yourself.

Before I’d arrived I chose a photo to work off of and showed it to him. He said, “Oh I’ll use the razor on you!” and I thought, “He sounds eager”.

I was only asking for an inch or two off but I think he had something entirely else in mind. So while he’s chopping away at my hair with a straight edge razor (like James Bond but less sexy), he’s explaining (mansplaining, cough, cough) how water pollution works, why native Hawaiians are dumb to have chosen to live at the bottom of a volcano and how Californians’ air is filled with snobbery as if snobbery is an element on the periodic table.

All light and occasionally racist small talk. I just sat there and stared at the blade in his hand as he progressively got angrier at the topics he chose.

Then I heard, “Oh god!” from the back of my head. I thought I lost a chunk of myself but luckily it was his finger. He cut himself open on the razor blade.

“Happens all the time!” he said as he ran to the bathroom.

The secretary had left for lunch and I sat there alone twiddling my thumbs with elevator music in the background and constant groaning coming from the bathroom.

He reappeared a few minutes later with his finger wrapped in toilet paper taped with a bandaid.

“Everything’s fine! Happens all the time.”

I don’t think he realized it didn’t make me feel better that this was a constant for him.

Whether he needed stitches or not, he pressed on.

“Let me get a new blade out for you,” he said as we both thought, “Because the other one is covered in blood and now I’m thinking about AIDS unnecessarily.”

His hands were shaking even worse now and the toilet paper was making his finger quite immobile. “Got it!” he said triumphantly as it slipped free, flew into the air and landed on the ground.

We both looked at it. Then looked at each other. “Third times the charm!”.

He got back to my hair and continued chopping. Chatting away about how you could live in Chernobyl if you really wanted to. I won’t knock him for interesting opinions that’s for sure.

He reached around me for the comb but found his hand had gotten stuck in my hair. The thick finger had caught and all he could do was pull my head with him.

I bobbed back and forth in front of the mirror and made eye contact with myself, “Well at least he’s not stroking my hair and calling me precious.” I’m an optimist like that.

Once he detangled himself with some nice product I was free to go. Literally. My hair was completely lopsided. The front right side was the original length when I walked through the door and the top layers (when did I ask for layers?) was maybe three inches long.

“Asymmetry is in these days,” he said.

I nodded and paid him and then went home delighted that he didn’t sexually harass me that I wrote a post about it and completely neglected to include any of this stuff which just shows how low my standard is for dealing with strange men and my standard for run on sentences.

Haircuts and sexism

Today I got my hair cut from a heterosexual, white, male hair dresser. He had ex-girlfriends and worked at a Game Stop and wore graphic tees.

I shamefully assumed he’d say something sexist and I’d have to laugh it off strapped to the chair with scissors in his hand. I waited for the onslaught.

I was surprised when he called my hair cute and that my new hairstyle looked beautiful that it wasn’t cringeworthy.

It’s a hard thing to describe when you can tell the difference between a creep and someone who’s just saying something nice.

In the wake of all the sexual assault scandals being brought to light I keep hearing the same old, “Does that mean I can’t be nice to women anymore?”.

As if it’s that confusing to tell the difference between, “Nice haircut, Susan!” and “Nice tits, Susan!”. Susan may have a nice haircut and nice tits but only one is allowed to be said in an office/walking down the street/at a bar/everyfuckingwhere.

Also, it makes me angry that autocorrect won’t let me type titties without changing it to kitties, ditties, or tithes. I only know what one of those words mean.

When I googled titties just to double check on the spelling because autocorrect has now lowered my confidence in my ability to spell, a subreddit for titties appeared with the catchy tag line:

/r/titties is a place for beautiful titties of all shapes and sizes 🙂 Post great titties for all to enjoy, or better yet, post your own titties!

Well that’s awfully nice of them. I enjoy how they’re asking people who have photos of women in their life (with breasts I assume) to just casually share them with the world. Or better yet, ladies I know you’ve been wondering who to share your classy nudes with. I’ve found the place for you.

Anyway back to the hairdresser. I just want to know if anyone else knows what the hell I’m talking about. There are guys that treat women like they’re individual people because they have had many individual women in their life. He talks to women for his job. Hundreds of women go through his salon chair with their own story.

Compared to the guy who went to an all boys high school and had one girlfriend and watched a lot of porn so he thinks he knows women but he calls you a bitch when you don’t agree with him.

He’s single now if anyone’s looking for a guy who worships his mustang (the car, not the horse) and has a profile picture of him and a woman who works at Hooter’s.

Maybe you’ve met your own version of this guy. Several times. Every day.

There’s technically nothing wrong with this guy. He’s nice to his mom and I’m sure will eventually become a decent person.

Honestly he just hasn’t talked to many women. Not in a sad, “pees in water bottles because he doesn’t want to leave his video game” kinda way.

Maybe I’m just speaking out of my ass*. I’m no sociologist but out of personal experience the more real conversations guys have with women, the more they see them as people. Let me know if you think I’m wrong**.

*I’m not but that would be an amazing skill to have. If you do have this ability please audition for America’s Got Talent immediately.

**Actually don’t because I hate confrontation and would rather watch you try to speak out of your literal ass.