Some people are just natural huggers. I am not one of these people.
I have a 1 metre wide circumference 'safe zone' surrounding my body. If you trespass the boundary lines into my circle of trust, my inner alarm starts screaming & my imagination shocks you repeatedly with 1000V electrical death currents. And then you spontaneously combust into flames of shame.
I have a small & elite list of bitches who have permission to come into my personal trust space.
This does not include;
- Reptiles, birds (especially seagulls), cats & small biting insects.
- Texas Chainsaw massacre type psycho killers.
- Smelly people.
- Yappy prick dogs
- Hobos
- Anyone with dog shit on the bottom of their shoe
- People who constantly spit up throat bogies
- Drummers (because I will try & have sex with them)
- Ballroom dancers
- Drunk people
- People with hand herpes, head lice or pink eye
- Anyone who wants to touch me with their feet
Sometimes my own husband hugs me & I stand with rigor mortis-like rigidity with my arms by my sides willing my body to love him back. He hugs me all the goddam time. While there is an insurmountable heap of love inside me for this man, I don't feel the need to engage him in a 24/7 hugfest whenever he saunters past. He knows how I feel about it but continues to hug the snot out of me at every opportunity because, he claims, he can.
I am happy & confident & I certainly don't have affection issues, but I don't hug no bitches willy nilly just because it's a nice thing to do (unless you give me presents). One can only assume that because I resemble a human shaped bean bag, I welcome hugs whenever, wherever.
I have this thing I do. It happens on it's own & I have no control over it. It's called 'exuding warmth'. I am friendly, approachable & when I smile, my eyes smile too. Everything about me screams 'Hug me & I'll muthafucking love it'. No so.
My friends husband hugs me every time we see them. Which is not often hence the joy & elation he must feel at seeing me again. But there is strictly no chest on chest contact. He keeps small distance between our chests then leans in, wraps his arms around my upper arms, & back pats me. BACK PATS ME.
While I pretend that I'm all up in this hugfuckery back patting business, the secret is, on the inside, I'm grinding my teeth down to a cocaine consistency. Don't pat my back bitch. I won't burp for you.
Being a musician (currently on sabbatical), drunk people want to hug me, touch me, throw $20 notes at me like I'm a naked exotic pole dancer & generally get up in my business.
One time in particular post gig at a pub in Nelsons version of the ghetto, a large drunk man approached me in a manner that can only be compared to that of an large angry bull at a Spanish conquistador bull fight. While I was wrestling to dismantle a microphone stand, he unknowingly approached me from behind, wrapped his arms around me, & hugged me with such ferocity as he attempted to rearrange my entire rib cage.
I collapsed to the floor in a heap gripping my abdomen like it had just been gangbashed with a mallet. A deep guttural growl escaped from my throat as I sprung forth like a rabid spider monkey to tear his face right off his skull with my calloused guitar fingers. He had scarpered by that stage. Lucky for him.
If there was any hug left in me at all, it was scared out of me that night by that ratarsed human crusher.
When I was younger, I used to sing for special needs people at their Christmas functions. And while they thoroughly enjoyed my renditions of Jingle Bells, The Little Drummer Boy & Silent Night, they spent majority of my one hour set eyeing me up for a sloppy goon hug or attempting to stroke my beautiful hair like the tail of a prized stallion.
These happy bastards would hug anyone like it's a competition. I will not hug a fully grown man that wears a bib & chews on his forearm all day. The smell of dried saliva makes me gag. Nor will I hug the other guy who spends his days masturbating into his housemates socks & running around the front yard with his pants on the ground.
As you can imagine, every year when I was forced to do this by my mum (she worked in the community homes taking care of the special people), I would welcome this fun time with the same amount of enthusiasm as one would have if they were getting their anus tattooed.
The law says you can't stab/judo chop/knee cap or running fuck kick any person who is not capable of writing their own name. This includes baby's. I just had to suck it up & hug them back like I meant it. Truth is, I kinda dug rockin' out to those goofy buggers. As long as they stayed the hell out of my circle of trust.
If you ever find yourself having to greet me, & I'm wearing a shit eating grin/smiley eyes, & you can't see any potential hazardous weapons either in my hand or within my reach, it's fair to say that you've unknowingly been granted Becky hug access. Get amongst it.
But for the love of fuck (& your own health & well being) DO NOT back pat me.
You likey the hug?
Peace, love & ra ra pa pa pum,
P.S I'm back on the League of Funny Bitches Allstars list hookers! Along with 14 other tres awesome & well deserved fellow shit cracking bloggers. Heartfelt thank yous to everyone that voted for this small town kiwi lass. I appreciate the love x
P.P.S I should also probably tell you now that if we ever meet in real life I will more than likely hug the snot out of you. I really like you guys. Especially if you were wearing a paper moustache.
