HEY. I didn’t get an invite by one of your paper’s fancy-schmancy Sports Profiles, but I don’t need any of that shizz. I play on one of the BAMFest female flag football teams here at Whitman, the Librarians of Laceration. For the record, I’m wearing my mud-and-blood-stained flag football jersey, some pink shorts and a scarf. Sort of going for the quietly deadly vibe. First off, let me just say that the last game? LAME. We totes slaughtered those Ribbon Crushers 52-8. RIDONKULOUS. I mean, they did get eight points (even though that last point was when the quarterback’s severed arm, still holding the football, happened to fly into the end zone during a particularly brutal play), but still. It’s EMBARRASSING. Anywhooz. We all get pretty beat up playing flag football; I mean, it’s all PART OF THE GAME. Some nerds might think that flag football is less of a contact sport than real football. WELL, THEY’RE WRONG. Flag football is responsible for like 90 percent of my physical imperfections. I mean, dude, my right elbow bends both ways now. I have a flippin’ TORN NOSTRIL. I got a bruise on my thigh THE EXACT SIZE AND SHAPE OF THE STATE OF TEXAS, give or take ten square miles. Baby got the thunder thighs. I’ve also got a scar on my right shoulder that I affectionately call “Nessie.” And, boy, do I like to show off my battle scars. I dress every morning based on which injury I wanna flaunt. Nostril? Highlighted by nose ring. Texas bruise? Running shorts. Nessie? Muscle shirt. I thrive on disgusted shrieks from total wimps who can’t stand the sight of a festering wound. Pathetic. They just don’t understand: it’s about the game, it’s about being with your gurls and giving 110 percent, one day at a time, it’s about: THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN CUT OFF RIGHT HERE FOR OVERUSE OF SPORTS CLICHÉS. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.