To say that I’m a lover and not a fighter is an understatement. I don’t like confrontation. Ever. With that in mind, I have been in my fair share of verbal arguments. But physical fights? That’d be none.

I’ve been threatened. A whole three times.

Here are those stories.

Crunchy-Haired Hoodrat
My first attempted throw down was in science lab as a high school freshman. We were broken into groups. Needless to say, none of my friends were in my group. As a 14/15-year-old, I was particularly shy. This fact was pointed out by a girl with horribly crusty-looking hair. You know, like when someone puts an obscene amount of gel in? She looked at me and say, “What’s your problem?” *pause* “After school, I’m going to kick your ass.” I just looked at her like she was nuts. I wonder what she’s doing now. Crackin’ skulls? Maybe.

Chick Fight, Pt. Two
This story isn’t as entertaining. When M. and I broke up, and he started seeing someone else, him and I decided that we’d stay friends, which has been great. So, yeah, that girl couldn’t handle my awesomeness, and called me to tell me that if I don’t leave him alone that she’d come out swingin’.

The Old Man is Mine
This one is the inspiration for this blog entry. A couple weeks ago, K. and I went a local yocal bar near the newspaper publisher she and I worked. This bar, people joked, was full of rednecks lookin’ for action — both the vertical and horizontal kind. So, I was walking back to K, and I was stopped by a guy - probably late 40s/early 50. He was sitting next to a lady who was a similar age. The three of us got to talking, and the man bought us a round of shots. (Who am I to turn down a free Jager bomb?) We toasted something arbitrary and let the booze slid down our throats. Then, the crazy struck. The lady turned to me. Her glazed face went from being chill to angry. She said, “You have to go away.” I was taken back. She was serious. She then explained that this guy with his old balls was hers. And if I so chose, we could settle this outside. It was cold, and really, he wasn’t much my type. So, I retreated. And, K. was ready with her death blow.