To Play Us Out

First of all, Merry Christmas to everyone.  Second, another guest post is upon us.  We all really liked the previous work of our friend “bitchesclearlyaintshit” last time around, so we’ve decided to give her another go:

Ah, the holidays.  Mistletoe over the doorway, presents under the tree, and joyous carols portraying the glory of the winter season.  Anyone with any sort of feelings has to enjoy this time of year for one reason or another.  In my household, my siblings and I have been brainwashed to believe that winter is the best time of the year by my mother because she is OBSESSED with Christmas. Sometimes I may be overly dramatic, but this is no exaggeration.  She begins decorating our house as soon as Halloween is over and doesn’t stop until the middle of December. She starts playing Christmas carols sometime in September and doesn’t turn them off until February. Thanks to her, I own three ridiculous Christmas sweaters, I can sing AND understand Christmas carols in German, English, Spanish and Latin, and I can decorate any given coffee table, mantle, or tree better and faster than Martha Stewart herself.  Truly.  This decorating skill comes in handy each year when my mother decides she can’t resist throwing some sort of massive, awkward Christmas party for all of her friends.  For example, this year she held a cookie exchange.  As per usual, I attempted to hide in my bedroom for the duration of the party, but when I was called to calm down my insane dog, I had to venture into the depths of women that she had invited.

My mom’s friends are usually pretty nice, but combined with shit tons of wine they become very outspoken.  And inquisitive.  On my dash to the garage to tranquilize (not literally) my dog, I crashed (literally) into a not-so-sober mother of a child I went to grade school with.  I, of course, didn’t even recognize the lady, but she recognized me. In fact, mid-apology, she shouted, “OHMIGOD! Bitchesclearlyain’tshit! You look EXACTLY the same as you did in eighth grade!!! You’re still SO ADORABLE!  Have you grown AT ALL?!?!”

Be drunk, be old, be merry, I don’t give a shit, but call me adorable and mention my height in the same breath, and we have a problem. See, readers, I am short.  And I am fine with being short.  But I am NOT fine with being looked at as a cute, adorable, squishy little child at the age of fucking 19.  Which is a problem I encounter on the daily.

Not an actual picture of bitchesclearlyaintshit.

Up until sixth grade, I qualified for average to above-average height.  Then I stopped growing.  I am not a midget, but I am by no means tall.  And while I’m pretty much over the fact that I will always require a stool to reach the top shelves, a lot of other people in the world aren’t.  Over half of people I meet immediately judge me based on my height.  Legit.  And I mean, I judge people, too. I judge the shit out of people.  But when I meet someone short with a non-intimidating face, I don’t automatically assume they should be treated like a child.

Whenever I meet someone new, I am guaranteed one of two reactions. In the best scenario, the person is all, “Hey, what’s up?” at which point I know that I can get along with this human just fine.  But, more often than not, the person* says something along the lines of, “OHMIGOD! My friend told me you were adorable and you TOTALLY ARE!!” Given this response, I can expect that within the next ten minutes the person will either a) try to hug me, b) tell me how cute I am and pat my head, or c) touch my face in some disturbing way. THIS IS NOT A JOKE. I have had my cheeks pinched by more than three different people.  And that count doesn’t include my grandpa.

*Please note that this reaction occurs most frequently in bitches. Which is yet another reason I find girls to be so fucking annoying.

On my high school’s dance team I was referred to as the cute little freshman because “I was so short and adorable!”  At first, I didn’t mind the attention.  And then, when I became a sophomore, I was STILL referred to as a cute little freshman.  What the fuck, people.  People I knew would physically cover my ears when others cussed or talked about sex and drugs and shit and refer to my ears as “the virgin ears.”  More often than once, the fucking ear-coverers were younger than me.  By at least a year.  Just because I am the height of an eighth-grade boy whose balls haven’t dropped yet doesn’t mean you need to hug me, kiss me on the cheek, or fucking SQUEEZE me.

It’s not even remotely original to put your arm on my head and say, “Oh look! An armrest!”  In fact, I can promise you I am picturing you dead.  There have been girls I meet who, within two weeks of knowing me, have literally sat me down and been like, “Really, you are just so adorable. My little sister would love you.”  Excuse me? Your little sister?! Just to clarify, the fact that I am short and have rosy cheeks does not make me a doll. Dudes pull shit like this, too.  I have been lifted from the ground countless times and swung around because guys feel the need to pick me up. I’m SHORT, I’m not a PLAYTHING.

Sure, there are times when I like being looked at as the “cute one.”  I can get away with ANYTHING because I look so fucking innocent all the time.  And when I’m cold, guys feel the need to give me their coat immediately because I remind them of their little sister.  But just to clarify, I am not a baby.  I drink alcohol (not responsibly, but who does?), I know what marijuana is, and I may need a chair to get my Christmas sweater out of my closet — but if you make fun of me for it, I’ll beat you up.  And I’ll win.