Listen up, motherfucker. I heard what you said. Oh, you think I won’t fight you because I freeze for 40 full seconds anytime my doorbell rings? To quote Judas Priest, a band I find too intense for my sensitive ears, “You got another thing coming.”
Sure, whenever I hear my doorbell, I come to a dead stop and wait for the potential serial killer who rang it to walk away. I’m afraid that if I move they will see the light shift under the doorframe and know I’m there. Or I’ll step on a particularly creaky floorboard and my cover will be blown. This time, it was just an Amazon package. But next time? Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, and Michael Myers might show up to have a party with my dismembered body. But that doesn’t mean any of you can fuck with me.
I’ll have you know that if I’m in the kitchen, sometimes I grab the really big knife and hold it menacingly. I think about whether I could actually plunge it into an attacker’s chest. I always realize that, no, I could not. I don’t think I could kill even in an act of justified self-defense. But I’ll still fuck you up with these here hands.
I sleep with a baseball bat at the edge of my bed and every night before I go to sleep, I pray I don’t have to use it. Hell, even batting cages give me the willies. A click in the heating duct in the middle of the night? Almost certainly the end of my life. But that doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass. I’d just prefer to do it in the daytime when it’s less spooky.
So when it comes time to throw down, I won’t hesitate. But no shots to the face, neck, torso, arms, legs, or pelvis region. And please know that I will be crying the whole time.