Foxy learns not to f**k with the forces of nature

For all the sayings out there about being sorry, none of them say that sorry makes things better, yet, as children, we are taught to believe it does: You go apologize and make BillyBoBob feel better. And I suppose because that’s what we believe, in theory it does. But as adults, “sorry” doesn’t always cut the mustard. We’ve learned to expect more, better, and we’ve grown cynical. A guy once pooped on my floor, true story, and no amount of  “sorry” would ever have made that ok.

The thing about “I’m sorry” is that it’s a catch-22 you don’t know you have to be sorry until you’ve done the thing you have to be sorry for, and by then it’s too late to be sorry because the thing you have to be sorry for has already been done.  You also need to be aware that the thing that you’ve done is something that you need to be sorry for. I’m the kind of person who likes to be smacked on the nose with a rolled up newspaper (metaphorically people!) when I’ve done something wrong. I want to know I’ve done it so that I can either apologize or explain why I did it. I consider myself a very intuitive and self-aware person, so usually I can tell I’ve done something wrong and immediately try to correct it. But when I can’t, it’s up to someone else to put my face in my pee (again metaphorically!) to show me what I did is not ok. And, if your truth is well presented (e.g. not yelled or physical), and I’m not on birth control, I will most likely agree to my fault, and say, “I’m sorry”.

Yes, my excuse is birth control ladies, you know what I’m talking about. Gentlemen, pay attention: how do I put this in a way that you can understand: the pill is lady steroids.

All of the side effects of anabolic steroids are possible side effects of hormonal birth control. I believe their efficacy is rooted in the fact that when you turn into the Incredible Hulk’s sister, there’s little chance of you getting laid and little chance of you getting pregnant.

So… yeah, I had the ‘roid rage. And it pretty much looked like this:

In the beginning of Jekyll and Hyde, Mr. Hyde tramples a young girl then pays off her family with £10 in gold and a cheque for £100 (approximately $7000 today, but consider that rent for a 4 room apartment was less than £5 a month) from the well-respected Dr. Jekyll. During my brief but amazing stint as a psychotic sociopath, I trampled (metaphorically) those closest to me. It turns out that, like Dr. Jekyll, the potion I was taking caused me to morph into a thing I would never have been without it. Though, like Dr. Jekyll, that dark side of me probably does exist and was simply allowed to walk free for a while. Jesus! If ever, THIS would have been the time for someone to smack me on the nose (still, metaphorically). But no one did. They just let me be a raging psychopath. And then distanced themselves from me. And now I, being neither a well-respected doctor nor any person of such means, have to pay my damages in words, deeds and, as the word suggests, sorrow.

I haven’t juiced for over a week now. I’ve gained a perspective and a clarity on the past three weeks, which  I obviously didn’t have while I was on the ‘roids/trying to avoid getting pregnant (@ Mom: this not even in the realm of possibility since I am still a virgin). I don’t like my dark side (well, apparently no one likes my dark side). I, and my mom especially, have worked really hard so that I would be a respectful, respectable, caring and conscientious person. And for three weeks I wasn’t any of that. It wasn’t intentional, but it is my responsibility. Nobody deserves to be treated the way I treated my friends. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what I was doing. And if you allow me (normal me), I will make it up to you. I’ll start by dedicating this song to you.

<3 Foxy


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