A couple weeks back, one night when my BAC was easily over a .20, I found myself in the bed of a guy I’m really into. I have no recollection of our conversation due to the fact I spent my day chugging tall boys at the Browns game, but in the morning he told me it went like this:
Him: “Aren’t these the softest sheets in the world?”
(In his defense, they seriously were, I was just WAY too drunk to notice)
Me: “I want to punch you in the face right now.”
…cue me passing out.
Did I actually WANT to punch him in the face? Absolutely not. There are many things I’d like to do with his face and hitting it with a closed fist is not one of them. But that’s what people say when they get “aggressively drunk.” His words, not mine. We laughed it off, but it got me thinking, if I was going to punch a guy in the face, what sort of situation would warrant that kind of violent, unladylike behavior?
The first time I punched a guy I was in sixth grade. We were riding home on the school bus in the sweltering humidity of August in Northern Ohio. Our school bus was comprised of a dangerous mix public-school kids, and private-school kids. I was obviously a public-school savage. However, my younger sister was a plaid-uniform wearing Catholic school girl. Our parents decided the teachers in the fourth grade at the public elementary school were a bunch of burn-out dip-shits, which was fairly accurate, and enrolled her at the local nun-run institution instead.
We still rode the same bus route in the morning and afternoon, but maintained a safe distance so our respective gangs—run by upper-middle class Caucasians—didn’t think we were in talks with the enemy. I sat towards the back of the bus, as do the older, cooler kids, and she sat closer to the front, as do the younger, less cool kids. This particular day on the bus was especially hectic. Everyone was sweating their tits off in what I can only assume was 100 degree heat. The seats were crowded, and the bus was hitting bumps HARD.
The mixture of sweaty bodies, flesh melting temperatures and a swaying bus became too much for my sister’s stomach to handle. We were nearly home when she blew chunks all over her seat. Chaos erupted. People were screaming, climbing over rows, fleeing the scene of the crime. I was chillin like a villain in seat 18, minding my own beeswax when someone informed me my sister was the culprit of the great spew of ‘00. I slung my Jansport bookbag over my shoulder, tightened my pigtails, and headed up to find her. She was face down breathing into a paper bag, heaving. I sat in the empty seat next to her as we sped home to our bus stop. Just as we were getting up to exit the bus, a blonde boy who looked like Macaulay Culkin, pre-meth face, stood up, pointed at my sister, and starting laughing.
“Haha! You threw up! Eww! Gross that girl barfed! Ahhaha!”
The rational thing to do in this situation would have been to escort my sister home post-haste so she could yack in the air-conditioning of our house and comfort of our mother’s arms. But instead I stopped, turned, and faced the heckler. He wasn’t letting up. Looking back now I’d like to think my inner monologue went something like this: “Who is this mother fucker? Homie thinks he can come at MY baby sister? No way. I’m gunna lay this mother fucker out! No one disrespects my family!” But…realistically it was probably: “Buttface! You meanie! You’re hurting my sissies feelings! You better stop, or else!”
I was in a full blown 11-year old, ginger-rage blackout. I walked up to him, wound up, and punched him square in the chest. So, okay it wasn’t his face, but I was eleven, it was a few more years before I had the balls to sock someone in the money maker. Draco Malfoy flopped back into his seat in shock. Did the neighborhood daywalker just serve up the swift fist of family justice?
Damn fuckin’ right I did.
I don’t think I’ve hit a boy since then—I’ve definitely swung at my fair share of broads, after all, I did go to a state school—but if I did have to Million Dollar Baby someone, I can only think of a few scenarios that would warrant such an action.
It doesn’t matter why you did it, who you did it with or how much you regret it now. You cheated. Prepare your face for my fury. My advice would be to let her take her aggression out with one lackluster hit, rather than risk her defacing something you really love. A little knock in the jaw should be welcomed when you weigh it against a chick going bat-shit crazy and keying, “BRIAN HAS AIDS” into your brand new 2013 Honda Civic. Just be glad she didn’t take a cigar cutter to your manhood.
HE GAMBLES AWAY THE WEDDING FUND
There goes your bride-to-be’s dream of having a dueling piano bar, fireworks and two-story champagne fountain at her wedding. If your future mother-in-law doesn’t deliver a kick to your dick upon hearing the news, you know it’s because your fiancé wanted dibs on the beat down. I would suggest cutting your losses, all together. If you do go through with the marriage she is going to have your balls in a noose until the day you die. And that’s no way to live. Take one hit to the face, call it off, check yourself into gambling rehab and hide there until it all blows over.
HE CALLS YOU FAT
There’s no way around this one. Once you’ve said it you can’t take it back. Prepare to get knocked out. Game over.