I have never been good at sports. I was the 90-pound girl who was picked last. The girl whose long, bony arms would bruise for days after an instructional volleyball scrimmage. And did I mention I cried for half a period when it was my turn to swing off the second story balcony of The Cage and into the bright yellow cargo net in front of me?

Yeah, sports are definitely not my forte. But even still, I found a way to semi-master the violent art of dodge ball. Ok, I was picked third to last; but still, it was an improvement! I excelled averagely at this active sport because a) little people are feisty, b) little people are fast and c) it was the only way I could hit the girls that annoyed me without getting jumped after school. All was fair in volleyball, much like love and war, and till this day I take my quick, dodging tactics everywhere I go, including first dates.

If I were an inanimate object, I'd be a coloring book. I'd rest my back on hardwood floors; pages open, waiting to be filled. Suddenly, two sets of elbows pin me down. I meet eye to eye with a sharp, colored pencil and scream, "On guard!" Then there's childlike laughter. I relax a little, knowing they will play with me and love me, even if just for a moment. I will be filled with bright blues, greens and reds, even if it’s outside the line. Because you can't expect much from children.

I don't remember crying as a teenager. I don't remember a time when teardrops streamed down my cheeks. I didn't cry at graduation or even when I left home for college.  The sadness was indeed felt, as was the moisture in my eyes, but I produced nada.

Then I met Kurt. I fell in lust with Kurt and was convinced he was it.  This bad boy on campus didn't want anything serious with me. I was a virgin - an innocent little, skinny girl lacking in the ass and boobs department.  At least, that’s what he’ d say. But I was still convinced he was it. So I wrote him a letter. Pen to paper, I scribbled down my feelings frantically and repeatedly. The words in cursive revealed I wanted him to be my first, and with that realization I sobbed.

I've never been the bad girl, the sucia, the sneaky sneak, the master manipulator, la otra. That chica who scoots down in the leathery seat of a cab as she does a quick peep-my-man drive-by. He flinches when a girl struts past and there she goes!  Cab door swings open and she is flying.  Up, up and away into the air like a possessed, badass villain or - depending on whom you're speaking to - a glorious, female superhero.  And how about the female who answers her phone while her hips are in motion?  She swerves on top of a naked man who isn’t her man and, just like that, whispers, “I love you” to her real man through the phone.

No. Definitely not me.