A Letter to Righty

Hey, Righty.

You think it's strange that I can't use my right hand to write, at least nothing better than the scribble you'd see from a five-year-old playing with crayons. So you snicker to yourself. You laugh when I try kicking the ball with my right foot, and how clumsy my right side is while playing hackysack. You ask me strange questions such as "Why do you use your right hand to hold your soup spoon?" as if there's something wrong with that. After laughing at my expense, you insult my left-handedness.

Basking in your glory, you consider me inferior. But what you forgot to realize that night when we were drinking and messing around playing ninja warriors in the basement is that you never expected that wild left cross. Living in your delusional right-handed-only world, I sucker-punched your proud ass. Damn, it felt good.

It's already hard enough trying to find scissors that actually cut when I use them, can openers that I can use without looking like a twisted pretzel, left-handed ergonomic computer mice, and so on. You have it made, buddy.

That bruise on your right cheek is a sweet reminder that I'm not only as good as you, Righty, but that in a fight, I'd take you out faster than you could say "Where the hell did that come from?!"

Still friends?
Lefty