I Got in a Chick Fight

When I hear the term, "chick fight," I immediately imagine two girls or more in some sort of tribal bout with hair pulling, slapping, and excessively annoying shrill voices. When I say I got in a chick fight, I mean I fought another chick. Period.

I dressed up last Friday night for Kashi's bridal party wedding rehearsal dinner in all my finery not expecting to go to bed after 11 PM, let alone get in a chick fight. I'm 28-years-old for hell's sake. Last time I engaged in any form of violence outside of twisting sticky jar lids I was in the 8th grade. In a nutshell, this broad was a total harpy to Spencer. I let her cuss at him for a few minutes out of bored indifference because the guy can handle himself. But when this moronic drunken shrew decided to call Spencer ugly, I lost all sense of reason. I immediately jumped in and yelled at her for the hypocrisy of it.....her shirt was ugly. I informed her she looked like a cheetah in it. Then when she couldn't think of an acceptable comeback I mimicked her lame one-liner and told her she sounded retarded and redundant and she should be ashamed of herself. Well, evidently I pushed her too far. The cheetah-retard-redundant call proved to be more than this girl's pride could handle. She told me to meet her outside. I asked her if she was sure because that particular night I was standing at 6'5" at least with my heels on, and I made sure she was aware I would "kill her." This girl evidently wanted to brawl because even after my warning, she still wanted to see me outside. So I went outside and quickly put her head in the asphalt twice. When the cop car lights flashed, me, Spencer, Stacy, and Jimmy fled to freedom. I lamented later that night that I'd lost a heel and chipped my first fake nail on account of this ridiculous incident. That girl wasn't even worth a heel or nail chip.

The next day when it was my turn to walk down the aisle in my pepto pink grecian gown (that was made for someone about 5'9"), the groomsman on my arm whispered, "Did I hear you got in a fight last night?" And so the domino effect began......from the ceremony, to the pictures, to the reception word spread. I was forced to tell the story more than 20 times in one night. It became such common knowledge that guests started calling me Bruiser. I even took the liberty of punching the air when the bridal party was announced officially to enter the reception.

Needless to say I feel this was a learning experience:

never wear animal print.

Why We Blog

My birthday was Monday of this week. That probably would've been an editorially better day to start a blog about myself because let's be honest, blogs are narcissistic entities. Anyone who has one (myself included) has a certain level of vanity that causes them to think that 1. people care about our lives enough to click on a link, save it onto their favorites, and continually return to read about us daily 2. people are wildly entertained by our musings about ourselves 3. people will surely look at every idyllic picture we post of ourselves and believe that's what we really look like, and 4. people will definitely remember each of our posts lovingly so that the next time we run into that person, we will feel appropriately in touch with one another.

Just the process alone of naming a blog is wholly debasing because the necessary action is to use a 3rd person reflective title. "Carrie: The Reluctant Californian." If I actually said something like that out loud in a conversation I should hope someone would slap me for being a self-absorbed hussy living in some socially delusional world where it's okay to use your birth name, as opposed to "I" and "me" when talking about yourself.

A blog is just as criminal as excessive talk about yourself. And I'm not gonna lie, I talk about myself a lot. Anyone who says they don't and that it's an unpardonable social crime to do so frequently is an idiot. What else are you going to talk about when a conversation crumbles because the person you're talking to is totally uninteresting in every way? You talk about what you know best: You. In all your blogworthy glory.