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=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   =
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         Afraid of the Ball
         ------------------

 I remember age 10, playing kickball at the
 playground.

 I was picked last for the team, since I was neither
 popular nor normal. The freshly mowed grass tickled
 my allergies, and I wanted nothing more than to
 plant my admittedly chubby butt in a swing and finish
 reading Romeo and Juliet while I gently rocked back
 and forth on the swingset. I was way out in the
 field because I was afraid of the ball. I swore
 to myself that the ball was naturally attracted
 to my bulky frame through some gravitational trick
 that could only be explained with a complex physics
 formula, since I always managed to get slammed in
 the face with it at least once in every game. I
 didn't want to admit to myself that the magic was
 probably the result of malicious intent from my
 playmates. So I stood there, hands slightly curled
 at my sides, waiting for the inevitable long kick
 perpetrated by one of the more athletic boys with
 a mean frown etched into his forehead. It came,
 and even as I winced I raised my hands to catch
 the orange projectile aimed right at me. Instead
 it slammed me in the gut, and all of the air in
 my lungs was expelled in one microsecond, and I
 doubled over trying desperately to force oxygen
 into my constricted throat, my wounded diaphragm
 struggling to operate my lungs.

 I didn't cry. Not in front of them. I was
 afraid of the ball, and it had hurt me, and I
 couldn't trust it. At that point I realized that
 I was being abused because of who I was, and that
 there was no computational conspiracy against me.
 Once I reached the point where I could elect my gym
 classes, I always chose non team sports.  Diving,
 swimming, running.. As long as there wasn't a ball,
 and the only person I had to count on was myself,
 I wasn't afraid.

 Now I am older and less physically repugnant. Nothing
 has changed. I am still afraid of the ball, afraid
 of getting hurt, and nothing about the way I am
 treated by anyone who supposedly cares about me has
 proven me wrong. Yet. The glimmer of hope that I
 secure within myself fades a little more each time
 my parents decide to apologize for offering
 assistance, or someone I love betrays me. It happens
 more often than I care to admit. I dared a few to
 toss me a good one, but I always end up 10 again, struggling
 to breathe through the pain, cursing myself for offering
 anyone the opportunity to injure me. But I plow on,
 fingers slightly curled at my sides, waiting to catch
 the next ball - one that will float as if by prophecy
 into my waiting hands and nestle securely into my
 palms. Someday soon, though, I will no longer stand
 in readiness. Instead I will turn and walk away,
 avoidance as armor.


 demonika
 demonika@demonic.com

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