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August 23, 2013 / MissSteele

Somehow, You are to Blame for This

My life has a tendency to get out of hand quickly. Even the most mundane activity can turn into a monstrosity of an event without warning. I will admit, I sometimes bring this upon myself. I can admit to that. I sometimes say or do things that warrant a horrendous consequence. But sometimes, just sometimes, I go out to eat and take a poop in a stranger’s yard.

See, that is what I would call an “unforeseen consequence.” When you go out to eat, you plan for a bloated belly and a steep check. You do not plan on shitting all over some poor soul’s rose bushes. But, that story is for another time.

This bizarre pattern of unpredictable outcomes has followed me since childhood. Since a young age, many of my stories have been followed by a reaction of: “Of course that would happen to you!”

stabbyI am always in the wrong place at the wrong time (or right time, depending on how you see it), I am often thrown into awkward situations that defy explanation, and I somehow always end up a scapegoat in someone else’s shenanigans.  I can seriously just show up somewhere and get blamed for a horrific crime that has just taken place without my knowledge. The murderer could literally be standing next to me with a bloody knife, eyes without a soul, and a name-tag that reads “Stabby” and people would still come to the conclusion that I should somehow be held responsible.

Take for a pitiful example an incident that occurred when I was eight years old. Some girls were pretending to be cheerleaders on the playground and decided it would be an excellent idea to form a human pyramid (because what could go wrong with that?). Without any teacher interference, they half-assed succeeded and a disaster was formed. A girl fell off the top of the pyramid and landed on her back. Who could have seen that coming?

The girl, after a couple minutes of writhing on the grass in pain, comes marching up to me in a shaky voice and screams at me that her back is messed up now. Through tears of anger she swore she hated me and that she was going to tell the teacher what I did. She said she was going to tell her mother I was the reason she was hurting and I would never be a cheerleader because the entire squad would probably die.

As you can imagine, my 8-year-old self was a bit confused because I WASN’T EVEN IN THE FUCKING PYRAMID! I was in a patch of grass nearby, rubbing dandelions on my white shoes to see if I could turn them yellow. The fact I was that child should come as a shock to none of you.

You see, back in my blissful days of childhood, I wasn’t yet jaded by the human race. I wasn’t yet paranoid that I was going to somehow get implicated in a catastrophe with which I had nothing to do. My thought process was more like, “Oh look, these dandelions are so pretty! Who cares if they are right here next to this tower of little bitches? There is no need for me to stay as far away from this shady shit as possible. This will not go horribly wrong in a sudden and unexpected manner for me.”

But, time has a way of changing a woman.

I could go on about other incidents in which I was held responsible for things that were totally not my fault, but that would take a lot of time. I won’t mention the time my brother puked up a bunch of ice cream sandwiches all over the bathroom and I received a stern lecture about the dangers or binging and purging from my parents, who were deeply concerned I had developed an eating disorder. They didn’t waste any time jumping to that conclusion. No, it couldn’t have been my brother who was apparently too lazy to clean up his vomit. Or even the dog. Nope, had to be me. No other explanation for that one. Just me.

I especially won’t mention the time that some woman named “Lexy” kept calling me and threatening to “beat my ass” because I was apparently sleeping with her boyfriend, whom I had never met. I believe she actually called me a “lyin’ ass ho” or something to that effect. She eventually figured out she had the wrong number when she had to explain to me what the word “ratchet” meant. Sometimes, I still think about her. I wonder if she ever found the real “lyin’ ass ho.” God help that woman if she did because “Lexy don’t play.” I learned that from her.

I also won’t bring up the time I nearly had to change my number because some dude kept texting me about picking him up at Walmart after several of his presumed drug deals, even after I had repeatedly requested he stop texting me because I do not like to be awoken at 3:00 AM by complete strangers. Especially ones who needs rides to and from Walmart. I don’t like the Walmart parking lot. My car always gets dinged by a runaway cart (or “buggy” if you will).  Besides, Walmart was all the way on the other side of town. I didn’t feel like driving that far. Also, the drugs. I didn’t really appreciate being implicated in the drug-thing. I just knew the Feds would be out for me before I knew it. History had prepared me for that.

I have to go now. I hear a knock at the door. It’s probably a police officer thinking I am in cahoots with Walmart man. I best put my face on, y’all. I don’t want to go to jail looking like I belong there.

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