A Smack to the Forehead

Ok..in doing work for my writing class a childhood memory has been revisited. It is rather embarrassing, but somehow the idea of thousands of people (lol ok I mean tens of people...I do have a realistic understanding of my blog viewership) laughing at me is kinda fun.

When I was in the forth or fifth grade, I forget which, I had to get stitches in my forehead. The scar is now barely visible. So, I guess I can finally explain all of how it happened.

In elementary school I was a bit of an outcast. It wasn't til near the end of the fifth grade that I ended up making some truly devoted friends. I had a tendency to cry easily, which was exploited frequently. One day, I was in quite a funk. I was so angry and unhappy. I felt like the whole world hated me. I wanted to lash out at something, but knew it would only make things worse.

So, this day I was wandering around the playground at recess, alone. It was a hot day and so the asphalt behind the huge block of a PE building was pretty empty. I stood there for a while, my shoulder pressed against the building. The building was hot too, so I started walking along, my shoulder sliding along the adobe painted wall. I walked, watching the ground, lost in the thoughts of my own misery.

When I reached about a third of the way down the building I paused. I reached into my pocket and felt the newly sharpened pencil I was carrying and the little devil on my shoulder whispered to me. The little rebel inside of me really had a good friendship with that little devil and so I quickly succumbed to the evil idea. I snuck that pencil out and turned my body toward that oven of a building. I wrote in little letters a four letter word. If I had said the word, I would have ended up with a mouth full of soap. I snuck that pencil back into my pocket and with a rush of adrenaline continued down the building, my shoulder still dragging.

I continued to watch the ground as I went, but my inner rebel was cheering. Then, I walked into a metal cage sticking out from the building. It was a small cage used to protect the electric meter at the back of the building. It happened, however, to be the same height of my forehead. My forehead smacked so hard into a corner of that cage the blood from the cut ran down into my eyes and I ran around the building to find a teacher. I was rushed to the nurses office where my parents were called. My mom came and I had to get five stitches.

So is there a moral to my story? Ah, I am sure you can think of a half dozen. It was the only time in my life I have attempted such graffiti. So, moral or not, a lesson was learned.