From the time I was three, I was enrolled in a rigorous and world renown flamenco college. My specialty quickly became el baile flamenco. I’d perform it every year at the county fairs and people would come as far as ten miles away to see me clicking my castanets and twirling the red ruffles of my skirt. I had many suitors, some of them even had entire sets of teeth.
This horrible thing happened to me right when I was on the verge of making it big. My partner was jealous of me because I overshadowed him every time. It was mostly because he had a cleft palate and people just preferred to look at me instead of him so no one ever even noticed how hefty his junk was in his tight black flamenco pants.
One night, right before we were to dance in front of an audience of Alzheimer patients at a local nursing home, he bludgeoned my knee Nancy Kerrigan-style and I will never forget the thought that coursed through my mind as I landed in a decrepit clump on the floor next to a pile of bedpans:
I MIGHT NEVER GET TO DANCE THE FLAMENCO ON MY WEDDING NIGHT.
Also: I really wish I was watching Degrassi right now.
My dancing coach had heard of a very mysterious witch doctor in Toronto who specialized in these sorts of tragic accidents.
I visited him in his mud hut. He was a five year old deaf boy. His translator said, “Rub this guano upon your bum knee every fifteen minutes for a year. It has magical healing properties that will restore your cartilage and make you feel like natural woman. You must always finish by sniffing the residue from your fingertips.”
I did this every fifteen minutes for one hour. And then I was like, “Fuck it, I always wanted to be a singer anyway so I’ll just pursue that now instead.”
Cha cha cha.