sometimes my brain-mouth filter doesn't work [an explanation]

if you remember this post, then you will recall me saying that I would explain a few things.

well kiddies, here it is, the big explanation.

okay, it's really not anything big, but that makes me feel all important and stuff 

when I use exaggerations like that.

Okay, so if you hadn't read that post, then you probably should.

seriously. there's two links now.

click on it. that little link. read it.

if you read it before then read it again.

Softball.

my life for 12. Years.

[yes, I had to make that large to make an impression]

This is the reason that I believe that my parents

[by parents I mean  mother] were [was] fuh-reaking out.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against my mom,

but she has a way of freaking over the little things.

For example,

I like getting dirty - she doesn't.

I like a ball coming at me at 50 mph - she doesn't.

I like history - she doesn't [and that's an understatement]

I like [love] the farm - she doesn't.

I have 100% trust in my horse - she doesn't have any.

I could eat a hamburger a day and not have a problem with it - she would die without her benefiber.

I am okay with people having imperfections - she [and my grandma] have a way of picking you apart.

anyway, moving along before I get even higher on my soap box...

Like I said, my mom [and grandma] hated that I played softball.

It wasn't bad until I started playing competitively until I realized that I could really  go somewhere with this

that it could get me into college, that it could be a way of making money until I graduated.

That's when it started getting bad.

That's when I started getting scars from sliding, when I started coming home caked in dirt,

and sometimes blood, from practice and games.

My grandma complained that softball wasn't a "lady-like sport"

she also told me that "no man likes a girl covered in scars"

[so far I haven't met any guy that hasn't liked the fact that I have battle wounds]

My dad always supported me playing ball he came to every game, made sure that I practiced frequently,

he was even my catcher for a while when I got serious about pitching.

*hello conflict!*

mom = hater

dad = supporter

me = stuck somewhere in the middle trying to make everyone happy.

sad but true.

I know, I shouldn't blame myself. and in a way, I don't.

It just all adds up when I look at it.

You probably don't see it, I know.

Okay, I'm rambling, I'm done.

There you have it folks,

explanation #1.

[I give it a number because I'm sure there will be more]