Hissy Fit Agreement
I am quirky. You are quirky. We all possess something in our personality that annoys the fuck out of everyone. When we become intolerable, our friends have every right to call us on our shit and do an intervention. Oh, yes Marjorie... your noonie stinks too!
Recently, there was an intervention done to me. Sniff. Apparently, my local tennis buddies could no longer tolerate my competitive zeal on and off the court. They crafted a joint effort to fix my red wagon
My first sense that something was amiss was the condescending tone that was consistently displayed in person, via text messaging, and during phone conversations. They were all talking down to me! Grr... it annoyed me. Suddenly, all text messages and phone calls stopped. Houston, we have a problem!
The torpedo that would soon rip through my heart came via email. It was so well written, that it could have only been done by a committee. One by one, the words were daggers to my heart. I felt as if I were Julius Caesar stabbed 23 times during the Ides of March by fellow Roman senators. Et tu, Brute?
My initial reaction was rage. I had the usual wicked thoughts... Don't fuck with me fellas! I will hunt each of you bitches down and there will be hell to pay! If it's war you want, it's war you'll get! And that's why I should never be in charge of an army. EVER.
Rather than get temporary satisfaction from going all mega-bitch, I held my tongue. Do you know how hard it is for me?! I suffered with my fury in silence. A small part of my brain deemed it to be a good idea to sleep on it before I reacted. I agreed.
I am glad I did. I pieced together the sequence of events which led us to the brink of war, and I was able to see the error of my ways. So, I wrote an email response that was as close to an apology I could possibly muster. I also promised to curb my "Bwahaha... I just drubbed XYZ on the tennis court!" text messages.
My email must have ushered a new era of peace, because tennis matches were soon offered from two of the friends involved in this spat.
In fact, I played Tom last night and won 6-2, 6-3. The old Brett would have written... Aiieee! I sure impaled Whipping Boy's ass last night! How long is my winning streak against him now? But I have matured... so I didn't text or write that. ;)