Tuesday, April 23, 2013

I'm diabetic

... well, no. I'm not.
Seriously, I'm not.

Here's the story:
I play racquetball every Monday 6-8pm.
I started playing 7 years ago. I used to play just for fun and it was just "hitting a blue ball against a wall and running all over the place to try to hit it again".
A year and a half ago, I started playing for real, by the rules, with a group of friends who were on the same track. I'm proud to say that I've become a petite racquetball bad-ass... slowly but surely.

I've twisted ankles, hurt my wrists, cut my fingers, fell on my bum-bum and been hit with a blue ball on my back, arms, chest... blah, blah, blah. All the normal things that can happen on a speed paced sport.
I won't mind. It's part of the game.

Sometimes we play with this French guy, who is a REALLY good player. He has taught us several techniques and strategies to play smart. We don't play by hitting the ball with all might. Like all games, strenght is not what matters. Sometimes the softest swing can drive your opponent crazy.

This French guy has a tiny little French friend who decided to learn the game. They thought he could practice with us.
Well... I'm not playing with that animal anymore. I WON'T.

The little dude has incredible force for his size (he's shorter than I am... meaning he's super tiny) and believes the game is 100% force and 0% mind. Horrible technique, if you ask me.

Two weeks ago, this dude swung a first serve and the ball came flying 25mps right on my mouth... TWENTY-FIVE MILES PER SECOND, straight into my mouth.
Of course, there was blood, I was dizzy, my friends had to call the gym's nurse so he could see how bad it was. He gave me aspirin (wtf?) and I was sucking ice for about half an hour but  right after that I was back into the court, but far away from the tiny monster. My racquet still has drops of blood from that day (ew!)
The next day, one of my racquetball dudes saw me and said: Ohhhhh... Mafecina Jolie!! sexy lips!!
Oh... so.... funny...

Anyway, two days ago, it was our last game of the season and I showed up late.
The guys were playing and the tiny monster was sitting there waiting for his turn.
When I got there, all he said was:
- Do you want to play? or are you afraid of me?
And well, 'twas brought: he lost 21-1, 21-0... and just when he was about to lose on a third set 21-2 ----- HE HIT ME ON THE HEAD WITH HIS RACQUET!!!

WHAT THE F^&%&^&^%*!!!!! 

The guy apologized a million times and wanted to change the subject, but I was not in the mood for chatting.
So there we were, sitting outside the court, awkward silent... aaaaand the guy decides to talk:
- ... so... any exams this week?
- No, I just have to proctor an exam. 
- Which class?
- Models of urban transportation.
- So, mass production?
- Nope.
- What else can you transport?
- Oh... I didn't know people study that.
- What?
- Well, yeah. That's just buses... that's not rocket science. That's not hard.
- Dude, you just offended me in so many levels...
- I promise next time I'll bring candy.
- What for?
- Candy makes girls happy... that's how it works. I'll make you happy.
- I'm diabetic.

... and I left.


  1. De golpe el enano es descendiente de Napoleón.

  2. Le petit Napoléon vous dirait: «Le mafezinha s'énerve vite!" Gracias Traductor de Google. Pero no te enojes, toma un dulce.... jajaja.... Rocket Science. :P


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