But Mom...He's Weird

I was the undisputed hula hoop champion in first grade hands down. Then again I think that I was the only one using the hoola hoops. I was also the only one that would sit at the same lunch table everyday, third from the end, no matter who else sat there. Often times a girl named Annie and her friends sat at that table and in order to discourage this behavior I invented the "Annoy Annie Show". A daily show in which I invented new ways to annoy Annie so that she would leave. (It was then that I knew I was meant for the stage.) I was the only walk the perimeter of the playground, alone, during recess. Looking back and thinking about first grade I get very sentimental, and also very intrigued, because it wasn't until now that I realized that all the other kids who I thought were weird,(which was everyone), weren't weird at all. I was the weird kid. I had all the symptoms. I kept to myself, I played with the hula hoops, I ate alone, I complimented the Playground Monitor because I was afraid of her, and I enjoyed quiet environments. Some might call this gay, but it's not. I was just reserved and enjoyed keeping to myself. I think the most telling evidence that I was the weird kid was the fact that my teacher called me in at recess so that I could feed the class turtle. Only the weird kids that you are afraid will become serial killers are asked to feed the class turtle at recess. I know that I was the hula hoop champion because my teacher said so. She came and timed me one time and declared me the record holder. I think I got this attention from my teacher because she felt bad for a couple of incidents.
The first was when one day I had just arrived at school and I was walking up the ramp that led to the classrooms and I found myself walking next to two fourth graders. One of them, the one with spiked hair, we'll call him Queerius, noticed me and commenced to comment on my stature.
"Look at the little first grader and look at his baseball backpack, awww so cute, not! hahahaha, puny little first grader!"
I don't know what it was about the situation but I all of a sudden got really, really scared and wanted desperately to get into my room. I was so distraught by what happened that when I got into class I went up to my teacher and told her about it and in the middle of relaying the story I started crying. My teacher told that the next time I saw the kid that I should tell her and she would deal with it. And the very next day as we were walking as a class to recess I say Queerius but I didn't tell my teacher because I was too afraid of the repercussions I might suffer as a result.
The second incident that made my teacher feel bad for me was when one day in the computer lab I had to go to the bathroom really, really bad. The rules was that you weren't allowed to leave your seat unless you raised your hand and got permission from the teacher. Knowing this rule, and being the obedient child that I was, I raised my hand so that I could go to the bathroom. But the teacher wasn't in the room. As a 6 year old I had the bladder capacity of about a teaspoon and I had drunken at least a half-cup of water that day So I was bursting at the seams. I wriggled and danced in my raised computer seat but there is only so much movement one can do to stem the undeniable flow of nature. With no teacher in the room and no other options the following thought came to my head I kid you not, word for word, "Let it go, just let it go, it'll be ok just let it go."

And let it go I did.

Instant relief. Instant warmth. Instant waterfall down the front of the raised chair directly onto the 12 reams of computer paper stored under my desk. Even while I was urinating over everything I didn't really think about the aftermath and how awkward it would be. I soon came to realize that I was sitting in pee and so did my teacher who just reentered the room. To make a long story short, my mom came and brought me new clothes and when I walked in the classroom thinking no one would notice anything, the very first thing that happened was a kid named Peter called out, "Hey, Jacob, why are you wearing different pants?" Great.

Needless to say I think my teacher, Ms. Silvestro, took pity on me and decided to keep a close eye on me from then on. Who knows, maybe she is the reason I am not a serial killer. But I am a cereal killer, from the way I dominate box after box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

I swear they sprinkle crack on that stuff.