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Little rip-ed weasel (weaselonastick) wrote,
@ 2004-02-05 00:10:00
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    Current mood: drained
    Current music:The Echoing Green- The Face of God

    Let me get one thing straight with you all before venting myself to the ether: I am not, nor ever will be, a Romeo, a Cassanova, a lover boy beyond belief. I have only had two girlfriends during the course of high school. On these two occasions when I did ask a girl out, it was done in a quiet way. I don't subscribe to the trial and error theory that says that the more girls you ask out, the more will date you and the more you date, the better your chances. I like to think I have a desire for an enduring relationship whenever I embark upon dating. Now, with that clear, and the waters crystal, here is the odd behavior.
    I am one of those people who's parents bullied them, well sorta, into skipping a grade out of intelligence, realized by the time he got there that he was: A:) Wayy to small to survive : and : B:) Socially underdeveloped. Thus, in eighth grade I got the massive crash course- philosophy- style teachings that leave me where I am today: repeated teasing, shoving in the locker room, shoving in the halls, shoving into lockers, getting into a fist fight or two, being derided as either too intelligent or too lacking in testicular volume to have many close friends. I'll simplify and skip ahead: One kid in particular delighted in seeing me smacking of shame and rage and impotence. His name was Alexander Hess, and though he will probably grow up one of these days, if he hasn't already, I beseech God to curse the ground he treads upon and force it grow black and redolent of thorns. He ran the gambit from callin me petty names to insulting me in front of the entire gym class on numerous occasion to punchin me rabbit-armed in the gut to jawing me on one occasion. Thank the dear lord he left the county before I got up sufficient nerve to deal with him, in full. On the last day he was in school with me, I split, and laid him out on the locker room floor, him struck twice in the stomach and once in the face. He hit the locker behind him when I uppercut him. Suffice to say it cleared my consciousness and let me procede with life. Much of the power he had held over me was gone by the end of eighth grade, but he maintained a presence up until the final day of school during ninth grade. I hope to God I see him again. Sometime, better sooner than later. I'll forgive him if I don't.
    I figured out two ways to deal with daily serving-up of abuse, which followed me in part because of my intelligence, partially my way of speaking and attitude. When I was in sixth grade, I'll hesitate not to say it, I was a full-fledged nerdlet, for all my good points. I spoke in an inflected, affected, condescending tone of voice, and I guess I was condescending at that. I interjected the definitions of words in place of the words themselves every so often, to try to put myself on a pedestal with my peers. It worked, sort of. I had high regard in the eyes of peers and teachers, but no friends as such. No name calling, either, seeing as how I was among people my age, height, weight, and overall fighting prowress. Which was very little. If anyone took offense at the way I acted or the grades I got, I could've decked 'em, more than likely. Not true in the eighth grade. In case you haven't figured it out, the grade I skipped was seventh, God bless it. So the first order of business was to loosen up my tongue a little. Drop the definitions and inject some words for once. Spice things up with some humor, find out where the human funny bone is and tickle it every chance you get. Then, second defense, adopt an obsession other than knowledge. I took the opposite:perversion and spasticity. And my life has been quite a blast ever since. I relish making people laugh with my odd wit and funny manner. Best of all, its laughter that follows me pleasantly, nor with a charnel house stench like Hess's used to. You can see that in my particular pantheon, he occupied a sort of devil demigod position. And, surprisingly enough, I got my biggest boost in number and quality of friends after moving on to the highest nerd and dork institution in this our good land of Virginia: The Commonwealth Governor's School. But, then again, we're not nerds. Most of us are laid back and relaxed and total slackers and future world leaders. Gotta love it, and the 45 minute lunch breaks and blocked classes it carries. Eases the nature of homework too. Another stigma added, though, in joining, so I found chorus. Hilarious times, people. Hilarious.
    But this is not to say that I didn't have friends back in the eighth grade. No. Alex was actually a good friend of mine, if you could call him that. It didn't get out right away that I had skipped that grade, and nowadays my wickedly weird personnality hides the age difference quite well, and, in the mean time, I scrambled. For friends, acquaintances, toe holds, anything, cause I already knew what hell I was sliding into. There were two others, friends then and friends now, who never hurt me or sought to. Andrew Gossard was one, partially because he got picked on himself for his size and smarts, and David Trump was the second. Both follow me now, but back then, we revolved around Alex. It keeps coming back to him, no? Well, I guess all of that and this is less than important, just a background to fall back on. Hell, now that I've told my life's fuggin story, I'm too tired to continue on with my girl dilemna. mm.. bed..



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