Today was the first day back to school. Today was also the day I woke up with pimple the size of Mount Vesusius on my chiny-chin-chin. And it was one of those big suckers too, that took up so much space on my chin, I couldn't pop it. Ugh, I hate those ones. But like my friend Rainbow says, "When you look for the bad in mankind expecting to find it, you surely will," meaning if you look for the bad in a certain situation, you'll find it. And so I had to find some good in my pimple problem. The good that came out of me not popping my pimple is...if it were to pop, it probably would cause more destruction than the actual Mount Vesuvius. Except the townsfolk wouldnt be covered in ash. They'd be covered in an oily pus-like substance. Ok, paging new topic...
So I decided to cover it up with a band-aid and I even created a cover-up story to go along with it. My story was, I tripped over some rocks and fell down on the sidewalk. I thought it was a good enough story to shut the mouths of the curious, but it wasnt. Which leads me to wonder why so many people are fascinated by scars and scabs? I mean, I know why I love scabs (they are so much fun to pick at!) but why does everybody else like 'em?
By the end of my first class, I took the band-aid off. Not only was it a big disappointment in the "I-fell-and-cut-my-chin-so-lets-not-talk-about-it" department, but it gave me a horrible nickname: Band-aid Boy. The teacher totally forgot my name, and said, "Uh...you...Band-aid Boy..." which led to a few snickers from some of the students. But only a few, since everyone else was half-asleep. Thank God, but still. Who wants to be known as "Band-aid Boy?"
See, I had specifically bought a red jersey track jacket for the first day of school. The moment I saw it at the mall, I knew I had to have it. And because it was half-off, it only made the jacket more attractive. I knew that once I put it on, everyone would be talking about it. They would see how cool I was, as I walked across the quad. Everyone would approach me and tell me how cool I was. I would be known as "The Guy With The Red Jacket" and they would all love me. And the teachers would tell me that because my jacket was just to nice to be worn indoors, they would sent me outside and tell me to just have fun and not to worry about homework. Of course, this whole scenerio played out in my head as I stood in line, and I couldnt wait for my daydream to play out.
But thanks to my big ass pimple and my teacher's comment, that very dream was crushed. No one called me, "The Guy With The Red Jacket". They called me "Band-aid Boy." It was like a bad nightmare, and the fact that it took place at school, did not help. The zits, the wretched nicknames...throw in warm vodka and a pregnancy scare and its high school all over again. Isnt that time period of my life, supposed to be over by now?
So I decided to cover it up with a band-aid and I even created a cover-up story to go along with it. My story was, I tripped over some rocks and fell down on the sidewalk. I thought it was a good enough story to shut the mouths of the curious, but it wasnt. Which leads me to wonder why so many people are fascinated by scars and scabs? I mean, I know why I love scabs (they are so much fun to pick at!) but why does everybody else like 'em?
By the end of my first class, I took the band-aid off. Not only was it a big disappointment in the "I-fell-and-cut-my-chin-so-lets-not-talk-about-it" department, but it gave me a horrible nickname: Band-aid Boy. The teacher totally forgot my name, and said, "Uh...you...Band-aid Boy..." which led to a few snickers from some of the students. But only a few, since everyone else was half-asleep. Thank God, but still. Who wants to be known as "Band-aid Boy?"
See, I had specifically bought a red jersey track jacket for the first day of school. The moment I saw it at the mall, I knew I had to have it. And because it was half-off, it only made the jacket more attractive. I knew that once I put it on, everyone would be talking about it. They would see how cool I was, as I walked across the quad. Everyone would approach me and tell me how cool I was. I would be known as "The Guy With The Red Jacket" and they would all love me. And the teachers would tell me that because my jacket was just to nice to be worn indoors, they would sent me outside and tell me to just have fun and not to worry about homework. Of course, this whole scenerio played out in my head as I stood in line, and I couldnt wait for my daydream to play out.
But thanks to my big ass pimple and my teacher's comment, that very dream was crushed. No one called me, "The Guy With The Red Jacket". They called me "Band-aid Boy." It was like a bad nightmare, and the fact that it took place at school, did not help. The zits, the wretched nicknames...throw in warm vodka and a pregnancy scare and its high school all over again. Isnt that time period of my life, supposed to be over by now?
|