Dropped catches and glory

I'd prefer testicular cancer. Yes, there i said it! If there was a choice, then i'd go for the balls. I know how insensitive this sounds like given i fully understand how gruesome the Big C is. But then, i've got reasons attached to it (not that attachment has served any purpose in my life so far). No, no, this has nothing to do with that iconic "I'm in pain" scene although an incident did occur in 1999 (the year Fight Club released) that brought me closer to my testicles. No, no, i didn't hit my puberty either. A cricket ball did—sadly—and the target turned out to be my nuts. Yes, a heavy leather ball from the sky (as i was supposed to catch it) hit my Netherlands instead of my palms. I remember experiencing the worst form of discomfort as time slowed down. No joke. That's also how the world's greatest cricket fan began to lose interest in the sport. Four years later, they performed a surgery on me leaving behind suture on my lower abdomen. To cut a long depressing story short, the whole event played a significant part on my asexual—to borrow a roommate's word for me—nature. Apparently, refusing to laugh at sexist/misogynist jokes makes one impotent. To be honest, i don't really know my motility rate but i like to call myself "inadequate at times but mostly functional". The roles testes play! So, for all the diffidence-inducing mental torture that happened because of a dropped catch, i'd prefer C in my Ts. That'd be poetic justice for a youth that got wasted on wondering too much about stuff that mattered too little. But the cherry on the cake would be me defeating cancer and not only participating in but also winning the Tour de France. Lance Armstrong would be SO envious of my two inglourious basterds, man.