When you think of the word, you think of its opposite. The word “tame” never has a good connotation when associated with who we are. It’s how you want your cat to be, your dog to act, and your white girl afro on a hot humid day. It’s a rarity to find the word connected to a person you deem fuckable. Maybe marriage material for some, but let’s be honest, the only monogamous relationship I am looking for has five digits and a palm.
I think the word and its opposite scare me in the same way the helium tank at work does. You sit there daydreaming about a day when you can sleep in until 7am again, until the balloon gets just big enough to make you flinch slightly. I have to do this task as far away as possible; things have a tendency to blow up in my face. And I really don’t need somebody’s inflated sense of sympathy to pop and remind me just how little time I have left.
But then you get on the realization that what you were doing left you thinking of other places you could be, until the possibility of ruining it presented itself. Your heart woke up. Your eyes opened a little more, sleep was gone for a second, your eyebrows creased downward in preparation for a loud noise…
And things were a little less tame for that brief moment. And it was exciting for that brief moment.
But really, all of this metaphorical bullshit over balloons? It’s been a long week.