(Hey guys and gals. It’s Memoir Monday time! This is where you write down a story about yourself, steal my button down there, drink a beer, and call it all a win. The only rule is that it has to be true, other than that, there are no rules. I keep getting more and more people to follow my lead! It’s catching on! Will YOU be one on the bandwagon this week? Once you post, let me know, and I will link you up down there for all my kick ass bloggy followers to go and read! Y’all are the greatest, and I love you. If you want to see all the Memoir Monday posts, just click on the book!)
The year was 1995, and I had just turned 13. And, in other news, the Oklahoma City bombing had happened which had completely wrecked a field trip I was supposed to go on earlier that year.
That was then the entire country suddenly got suspicious of white guys buying manure, not Arabian fellas with shoes.
Anyway, I had just started the 7th grade a couple of months before, and things were not going well for me. I had been slapped by a chick who had mistakenly been informed that I’d called her a whore, and I had bawled like a baby, because that’s what I did then.
We had a large black girl named Nicky* in our class.
She was big, y’all. She developed earlier than anyone else, and this was BEFORE they started puttin steroids in the chicken and making 6th girls D cups.
Not that I look, you know.
Nicky was a great gal who would talk to you and be your friend when no one was watching. I knew this from experience.
However, when you were in a group of people, Nicky had a problem.
She’d grab your penis.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a bad thing. I wish a big black chick WOULD grab my penis right now. Hell, even in public.
But in the 7th grade, I wasn’t…ahem…as big as I am now, and I, like every other teenager in the nation, got a hard on at the drop of a hat. I didn’t need any girl grabbing a hold on my cash and prizes, and causing me all these problems.
We were in class, and for those of you who go to school at Okay, it is Coach Botts’ room now. The teacher at the time was Mrs. Wallace.
Mrs. Wallace had left the room for a moment, and Nicky looked around the room for a target. I was a skinny, wimpy kid at the time, and her eyes locked onto mine.
She got up, and came towards me. I assumed a defensive posture. (Jumping out of my desk and hiding behind another.)
She came after me.
I got up, and ran to the teachers desk. I turned around to face her, and she was RIGHT THERE. Hand out, groping, grasping for the prize before her, so she could announce to everyone, “It’s little, y’all!” which was her standard phrase after grabbing a young man.
As she closed in for the kill, I gave a fake.
I was not yet the ninja I am today, but it was still a good one.
She went for it.
SHE WENT FOR IT!
I was so relieved that I didn’t even stop to think. I just went for the opening.
Then I realized.
SHE HAD FAKED MY FAKE.
I went for the gap, which suddenly wasn’t there anymore, and so I did what any brave man would do in this situation. I threw myself backwards, where the back of my head caught the corner of teachers desk, and spilled the pop setting on it all down the back of my clothes and neck, which were suddenly sopping wet.
I stood up, and the class ERUPTED.
Much like the back of my head, which, and I’m quoting someone in the class here, “Shot blood up just like the movies! It was SO COOOOOOL, Travis!”
I didn’t spill that pop.
I probably got blood in it though.
You see, the corner of that desk and the back of my head had a terrible disagreement. The desk won, mostly because it lacked a vascular system. I put my hand on the back of my neck to wipe away what I thought was a Diet Dr. Pepper, and I pulled away a hand covered in blood. It was then I yelled the phrase that was repeated to me even on graduation day.
“I’M LOSING BLOOD FAST, GUYS!”
And I ran out of the class.
On the way to the office, I was stopped by the superintendent. He was both shocked and amazed at this skinny 7th grader running down the stairs with blood coming out of the back of his head like a horror movie. He handled it well though, and my mother was called, and I went to the doctor. 7 stitches and a shaved spot on my head later, I was just fine.
Did I want to go home?
I went back to school. I wanted to show off my battle wound.
What I got to watch was the 85 year old high school lady janitor cleaning my blood off of ever surface between the gym and the office.
That’s the first time I got stitches.
*Name was NOT changed.
I just realized that I got stitches trying to KEEP a girl from touching my penis. And now I’d gladly take 7 stitches to GET a girl to touch it. Geez.
Other Non-Bloody Runs To The Office Today: GO READ THEM!!!
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: When I Am Old Enough For Diapers.
Josh’s Memoir Monday: Part One-Pictures Worth More Than Words.
Shany’s Memoir Monday.