The Joust tent

“Perhaps your knight in shining armor is a mere boy in tin foil…”

I hear so many assertions that chivalry is dead, but I don’t buy it. Chivalry didn’t die, it just went on a long vacation from the shallow, bar-traipsing bitches who disease the world with a sense of entitlement merely because they have breasts; they taint the common opinion for the rest of the gender. However, men tend to do the same for their poor species; my male friends constantly complain that there aren’t any genuine, intelligent, worth-while girls to date, yet when they find them, they act like complete idiots.

I’m not necessarily looking for a knight, and I’d certainly like to do without the armor for once. I’m independent, I need an extreme of space, and I certainly don’t need to be rescued. In the inventory of armor, I’ve got plenty for the entire occupancy of the Round Table, it’d be nice to find someone who allowed me to shed it and perhaps let it get a little rusty.

I suppose that level of worthiness is completely dependent upon my own willingness; I hate to shed the armor and have to lift it all back up again when people prove to be ready to merely impale me with their sword, in nowhere near the way that such an innuendo could prove to be positive. No, we’re talking blood, and guts, not a flurry of erotica out of an Elizabethan romance.

So. Long story short, I shed the armor. I lost the joust. The knight walks out of the arena as though he’s won, when really, he overlooked what the prize really was. He spilled blood, yes. Not many have done so, congratulations. But he missed the actual main event.

Someone once told me that I presume too often, while I claim to merely assess the information that I’ve been given, and determine my own opinion based on such. I honestly am still unsure what other choice I have in a world where people cover themselves with armor and refuse to stand in the arena and just fight. If the opponent is kept hidden, I don’t know what I’m up against and I have to form a strategy accordingly. Or die.

I wanted a shield. I wanted my armor. But I took it off, and I got wounded. Now, bleeding, in the middle of the dust, crowd on its feet, I get back up. I stepped into the arena, I fought for what I wanted, and now I'll walk away, head held high because I did so. My opponent thought he won. Unfortunately, he failed to see, we should have been fighting together.