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Sunday, May 13

Tagged.

So it's officially official. I kick all sorts of butt at laser tag. But really, random 40-year-old man named Brian on the red team. How did it feel when I tagged you over 100 times in a matter of four minutes? It couldn't have felt good. I'm just a little girl with a cute red shirt. I mean, sure, I have a BA tat on my neck, but still. You're 40. And balding. And you have big biceps. However it felt, it couldn't have helped that when I shot you over 100 times in four minutes, you were with your children and wife. I'm surprised you didn't start crying. I was expecting you to roll up into a little ball and start weeping, remembering all the times in your past when you had failed and how they all accumulated up to this very moment in your life, big manly tears rolling down your cheeks. I mean sure, you would have sacrificed all your dignity, but did you have much left at the end of that game, anyway? No. No, you didn't. However it felt, it couldn't have helped that at the end of your game, when everyone was looking over the score sheet, some random woman you were with asked, "Who's SP?" and I raised my hand; and then she looked at you and said, "Wow Brian. She really killed you." Yeah. Starting to cry then would have been acceptable. Expected, even. What a man you must have felt like at that very moment, with your tough-guy plaid shirt and even-tougher-guy buzzed hair. Oh, Brian. I may have raped you of your dignity, your pride, and any preconceived notion you may have had about how awesome you are with a gun; but let me just thank you, because you outright made my day.

So to that I say, Happy Mother's Day, random guy named Brian. You deserve a bouquet of roses and the greatest pity pint of Ben & Jerry's money can buy.

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