I am told that I was born in grotesque fashion, as 100% of everyone on this planet was. I apparently was not willing to enter this world, and the doctor used a suction cup to yank me out. That's right, I got plungered out like a clogged toilet. That's why I look the way I do, I think. It's a good thing I don't remember.
Perhaps my earliest memories come from Westminster Church, where I attended daycare for several years. Apparently, I left quite an impression upon the people who worked there, as there are some who still remember me at least 15 years later. What can I say? Even as a toddler, I was charming as could be. Serious 5 year-old game with the ladies, too.
One time, a girl named Christine vomited what appeared to be gray mud in the corner of the classroom. Then she did it again. And again. To this day, I associate "Christine" with "projectile vomit". I could meet the hottest girl in the world, and strike up a conversation with her. Things could be going real smooth, and perhaps I'm showing her how I can hold a straw or pencil in the space directly between my eyeball and my skull. Then, I ask for her number. Smooth move, Will. The eyeball trick is a winner. I get her number, and then I say "oh man, it's been a solid 30 seconds since I had this stupid idea for my blog! I need your name!". Then, with a wink, she says in a very lovely voice, "Christine".
And proceeds to throw up all over me.
Another early memory includes Alex Billak, who was one of my friends in my very early years. The story is rather short...we used to sit at Westminster and eat chalk dust. Many of you are probably feeling pretty Christine-ish at that, and I don't blame you. I didn't enjoy it, but he did, so I thought perhaps I wasn't eating enough of it, and had to double up to get the full flavor experience that only chalk can give you. In the end, I probably consumed more chalk than a sidewalk crevice.
Skip ahead a year or two to Kindergarten at Eisenhower with Mrs. Friedman. I used to annoy the shit out of this lady, though I never knew it. Looking back, I was a real bastard, but it's funny. I used to go to her desk while everyone else was working, and take stuff out of it. Then I would proceed to ask her what each thing was...every single day. I think she probably took pity on me, because she thought I was retarded. How else could I not understand "those are scissors" after the 50th day in a row? But I wasn't retarded...I can't remember now, but chances are good that I knew I was being obnoxious, and I enjoyed it.
I have made several trips to the emergency room, most of which were for stupid reasons. One year on Easter...or was it perhaps a different holiday? Whatever the case, we were at my grandparents' house in Baldwin for a celebration of some sort, and my Dad, my uncles, and I were playing catch with a football in the backyard. I ran to make a catch, and drove my face straight into a pole that held up the clothesline in the back yard. Holiday ruined. ER.
Three Christmases ago, I punched through a pane of glass in a fit of rage. I won't go into the entire story, though in truth, it's more justified than it sounds. The end result was 6 stitches, presents being delayed until about 2 p.m., and emotional trauma for my family. Once the spirit of the holidays re-entered me, I spent the entire time at the hospital making jokes, attempting to get the man who was stitching me up to laugh. He did not, and I still think he probably got nothing but shit in his stocking as a kid. How else could you avoid even smiling at the hilarity of a kid hitting his stitched, slightly bleeding hand off things, because the Novocaine made it feel as if it was a block of wood? Oh right, my Mom wasn't laughing either. Holiday ruined. ER.
The most bizarre trip to the hospital was not holiday-related. I used to put coins in my mouth, because as Mrs Friedman had realized before any of us, I was retarded. I enjoyed the taste of the metal, and a layer of grime and germs only added to that flavor. I have also heard that there's cocaine on all our money, so perhaps I am a cokehead? Regardless, I swallowed a quarter one day, and was taken to the hospital. They told me there was nothing they could do, and I'd just have to wait for it to "pass". I'm convinced that it never did, and that if all else fails, I'm worth 25 cents (adjusted for inflation).
I would like to be able to say that in my 21 years of life, I have learned things. Valuable things, invaluable things, and trivial things. One thing, two things, red thing, blue thing....you get it. And I can say that yeah, I have. I'm a pretty decent writer, if I do say so myself. I also have a knack for making people laugh when they don't want to, and laugh harder than normal when they do want to (except that time Bri Buczek punched me in the face last year, which turned out to be the funniest part of an already hilarious evening). Perhaps you're reading this going, "he's not that funny," to which I say..."shove it up your ass". It's my damn birthday almost, and I'm going to brag. I never do, and if you ever catch me doing so, it's a joke. I'm not really the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas, the kitten's mittens, or an ox's socks. None of these animals wear clothes, and bees don't have knees. That would be preposterous.
And I made up the ox thing. Nobody else has ever said that before, and with good reason. Oxen live in muddy areas, and socks would simply slip off their feet into the mud. I'm sure at one point, a cat wore mittens or pajamas, and a bee with knees was born near a nuclear reactor. An ox would never wear socks.
See what I just did? That's called beating a dead horse.
Or like putting socks on an ox.
Tomorrow night, I shall embark upon my first journey to a bar that didn't result in a quick "get the hell out" (just kidding, it'll actually be my first time entering a bar for anything other than a burger). In conclusion, and in light of all of this reflection, I shall promise to remember all that I have learned in my past. As I move forward and grow older with each passing moment, I will remember what scissors are, I won't punch any glass, and I will not eat chalk. There may be a few other things that I should take with me, but those are the most important three.
Oh yeah, and I won't even go "Christine" and vomit on anyone.
Time to party like it's 1996.
This is not me, but the little bastard stole my dance moves.
Thanks for reading.