You "accidentally" touch me, and I'll "accidentally" rip your balls off.
Between my failed attempt to exit through the garage door and my later being repeatedly groped by some horny little freak, today has just not been all that enjoyable.
Let me start by saying that both encounters were similar in that something ended up dented, be it a garage door or a teenage boy's face. But only the latter deserved it.
I had to leave the house pretty early this morning to get to drama practice in Austin. Man, I had everything. Map, cell phone, purse, proof of insurance, tiny stuffed monkey, keys, hershey's bar (breakfast). Check, check, and double check. Good-to-go, Roger-that. Lights on, stick in reverse, foot on pedal, and...
CA-CHIN-KA-CHING-CHIIIIIING
Oh.
Shit.
Yes, good neighborfolk, I am the idiot who rammed her car into her own garage door this morning.
Oh, and if you're the guy a few houses up the street who backed away in his lawn when I passed by, fuck you. It's not like I'm some kind of psycho or something.
Onward, then.
I showed up at practice a good twenty minutes late and we jumped right into Act II, Scene 8, which happens to be the scene in which I (the self-righteous yet arguably flawless slave girl) am fatally stabbed by Pontious Pilate. I fall back onto Soldier-Guy's arms where I twitch, mutter incoherently, and die. Seems simple, yes? You'd think. But no, the stringy little perv playing Soldier-Guy seems to think that the best way to catch a falling female is by grabbing her chest and squeezing.
Let me make this clear: I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I practiced the scene three times, and three times he kept making for the boobies. Three times I just flicked him off subtly and told him and the director that he needs to start catching me at the waist. They both assured me that it was just an accident and next time he'd do the scene correctly.
The fourth time, I kicked his ass. I screamed at him at the top of my lungs to get "OFF, OFF, OFF!" and I slapped at him.
We took a break from the scene, which was nice. I'm not into sexual harrassment, and frankly, I needed a minute to get the figurative bad taste out of my mouth. When we ran the scene a fifth time, he grabbed my left breast so hard that it hurt. I kicked him off of me and yelled at him to never touch me again. I was done. I yelled at him some more and told the drama teacher that I wasn't going to do this with him anymore and that I wouldn't do the scene at all unless she just let me fall without being caught, which finally seemed to give her the idea that I don't like being fucked around with by horny little boys.
Long story short, I made it pretty fucking clear to all those within a 2-mile radius that you sure as hell shouldn't touch me if I don't want you to, and I finally get to perform the play with absolutely no physical contact with the little bastard.
Let me start by saying that both encounters were similar in that something ended up dented, be it a garage door or a teenage boy's face. But only the latter deserved it.
I had to leave the house pretty early this morning to get to drama practice in Austin. Man, I had everything. Map, cell phone, purse, proof of insurance, tiny stuffed monkey, keys, hershey's bar (breakfast). Check, check, and double check. Good-to-go, Roger-that. Lights on, stick in reverse, foot on pedal, and...
CA-CHIN-KA-CHING-CHIIIIIING
Oh.
Shit.
Yes, good neighborfolk, I am the idiot who rammed her car into her own garage door this morning.
Oh, and if you're the guy a few houses up the street who backed away in his lawn when I passed by, fuck you. It's not like I'm some kind of psycho or something.
Onward, then.
I showed up at practice a good twenty minutes late and we jumped right into Act II, Scene 8, which happens to be the scene in which I (the self-righteous yet arguably flawless slave girl) am fatally stabbed by Pontious Pilate. I fall back onto Soldier-Guy's arms where I twitch, mutter incoherently, and die. Seems simple, yes? You'd think. But no, the stringy little perv playing Soldier-Guy seems to think that the best way to catch a falling female is by grabbing her chest and squeezing.
Let me make this clear: I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I practiced the scene three times, and three times he kept making for the boobies. Three times I just flicked him off subtly and told him and the director that he needs to start catching me at the waist. They both assured me that it was just an accident and next time he'd do the scene correctly.
The fourth time, I kicked his ass. I screamed at him at the top of my lungs to get "OFF, OFF, OFF!" and I slapped at him.
We took a break from the scene, which was nice. I'm not into sexual harrassment, and frankly, I needed a minute to get the figurative bad taste out of my mouth. When we ran the scene a fifth time, he grabbed my left breast so hard that it hurt. I kicked him off of me and yelled at him to never touch me again. I was done. I yelled at him some more and told the drama teacher that I wasn't going to do this with him anymore and that I wouldn't do the scene at all unless she just let me fall without being caught, which finally seemed to give her the idea that I don't like being fucked around with by horny little boys.
Long story short, I made it pretty fucking clear to all those within a 2-mile radius that you sure as hell shouldn't touch me if I don't want you to, and I finally get to perform the play with absolutely no physical contact with the little bastard.
posted by Triptrain at
2:43 PM
|
3 comments
