When I was a kid my parents raised me to believe that if I made fun of someone, God would get me by causing whatever thing I was making fun of them for to happen to me. Its no exaggeration to say that this little OCD girl DID NOT make fun of people under any circumstance. On the contrary. Me and my obsessive-compulsive disorder could be found perpetually complimenting the profoundly stupid and freakishly ugly.
While other kids my age might have stared or giggled at someone with half an arm, a giant wart on their nose and one unusually large and yellowed tooth, I was all, "You have pretty eyes".
Every time I notice my whole arm, the absence of a nose wart and my numerous teeth, I am thankful I made the effort.
But since last Friday, I have been asking myself at what point in my life I might have laughed at a forty-two year old woman with no thyroid, a bad gallbladder and a jacked up ovary. Yep. It seems that the invisible OCD score keeper who lives in my head wasn't done evening the score with the thyroid surgery. Now he wants my gallbladder and my ovary as well. If I don't figure out who it was I made terrible fun of in my life and make amends, I'm well on my way to being completely hollowed out by a surgeon's knife.
I do remember that once I paid a quarter to see the world's smallest woman at a fair in the great state of North Carolina. Maybe she didn't have a thyroid, gallbladder or ovary. I don't recall. I was too distracted by her vigorous and toothless gumming of what seemed to be an imaginary peanut butter sandwich and the fact that she was sitting on the floor knitting something that needed to be knitted completely oblivious to the line of gawking, ignorant people who had nothing more exciting to do with a quarter on a Saturday night. (And before I forget it, I've seen littler.)
Since I don't have to gum things and I am not forced to make my living in the back of a circus trailer (yet), maybe that incident wasn't the one that caused my medical problems. Besides, that was so long ago I'd have a hard time finding her to apologize. She's probably in a tiny grave by now.
There was the one time when I was younger and hotter that a remarkably ugly man wearing a fuzzy vest and an invisible cloak of B.O. approached me at a club to dance with him. Although I did not point and laugh, I may or may not have said I was gay and my girlfriend would kill me. Looking back, he did walk funny... which might have indicated the lack of a gallbladder. And based upon his manly stinkiness and the four or five rogue hairs on the top of his head, I'm reasonably certain he did not have an ovary. I didn't see the tell-tale scar across his throat though, so its likely he still had a thyroid.
Cross that one off.
Let's see, now. I recall the evil red-headed Berta Lou and I pointing and laughing at one or two people in the last several years. Its a well documented fact that I was a wonderfully kind woman before I met and became friends with the Evil BL. If I am being punished for something, chances are its her fault.
There was a hateful woman we knew who had teeth the color of old tea bags and never ironed her clothes. She was terrible mean to me and never tired of making my life miserable. The Evil BL and I frequently wanted to punch her, but I'm not sure we technically made fun of her so surely she's not the cause of my innards going sour...unless she and her coven put a curse on me, that is. (Note to self: be more careful where I leave locks of my hair.)
Here's a little public service announcement from me to you, kids. Ugly is often a condition of breeding by a male and female who shouldn't have done the do, but that's no excuse to be nasty and wear wrinkled clothes.
Oh well, I guess have no idea what in the world I've done to warrant such problems as these. I know for sure I always touch the oven knobs seven times and if I see the image of Tom Cruise in any form of media, I am always careful to spit 21 times and cross myself for protection.
Whatever it was I did, looks like I'm going under the knife yet again. I'm thinking this time I'll just go ahead and have them hollow me out and stuff me with something warm and pliable so as to prevent future outbreaks of "old lady insides" disease. On the bright side, it'd be the perfect time to have my breasts done!
I don't know why, but I'm in a big Roxanne kind of place today. Maybe it's the Police thing. You know how I love police.
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