How do you know someone is “The One?” Is it the fact that he's a white guy with dreadlocks? Is it that he was kind of yelling at a girl for not understanding something about wine prices? Is it enough that he's a bartender? Who knows, but whatever it is, I feel it in my heart. I know this is the first boy I’ll ever punch right in the face. And, if I’m lucky, he’ll punch me in mine. I think he feels it too, because when I said, "Dude, you need to chill out," he did chill out but also he was very terse in pouring my Strongbow. I think I've got a chance. Maybe I’ll take the subtle route, making sure he’s in hearing range when I casually mention to my friend that I carry a hammer around in my purse since knives are illegal in Edinburgh. That’ll definitely show him I’m DTB (down to brawl).
There have been opportunities in life that I've let slip by. There have been so many dudes lecturing their girlfriends outside of bars. Regret plagues me as I lay in bed, thinking of what could have been. Why didn't I say, "Aren't you embarrassed for yourself right now?" to which he would reply, "Mind your own business," and then I would shoot him a dazzling smile and say, "Unfortunately, my business is not taking medication and picking fights with boys in stupid shorts." My CAPS therapist wouldn’t be supportive of this behavior, but she’s never felt this way! How could she understand? Maybe she doesn’t even remember me and I can get that sweet sweet full ride of six free sessions upon my return to the U.S. Anyway, she’d just tell me that deep down I really want to fight my father.
Some people say love of fighting isn’t real, that it’s just a chemical reaction in the brain to ensure the continuation of our species. The scientific explanation for something doesn’t make it any less beautiful. When I look at this boy’s face, I think God himself designed it for me to hit it with a two-by-four.
This might just be ’til death do us part. I may very well get myself killed. If this happens, please find a way to upload my consciousness into a warrior robot. If the government hasn’t been lying, and the singularity really hasn’t happened yet, I’ll be happy having my corpse deposited into a dumpster filled with brass knuckles. My skeleton will find a way.
Now, I’m not an idiot; I know it won’t last forever with this guy. After I spit a tooth into the gutter, I’ll probably never see him again. But my heart will remain open and by golly, it will continue to pump blood into my overactive amygdala.
I’m not close-minded either; I’d fight a girl. If the mood is right and she says the right thing (“I’m not like other girls,” “I really think I made a difference by volunteering in Africa,” “I’ll have my steak cooked well-done,” etc.) then you can bet your virgin unbruised face-flesh we’ll be exchanging blows within minutes. Heck, I'll fight anyone. My fists are genderfluid and polyamorous. My punching partner doesn’t even to need to a sentient being. You want the moon, baby? I'll fight the moon.
Charlotte Raskovich is a Humor editor.
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