There was time in the not too distant past that the only reminder a woman needed of her pregnancy was to simply take a look at the sullen, moody, angst ridden teenage alien that was masquerading as her child. She would sigh, take a Vallium and then go through the baby clothes, baby pictures and maybe hug the first teddy bear she ever gave her child.
That was THEN.
Now, thanks to movies like "Silence of the Lambs" and Modern Science, the Modern Mother can have a truly one of a kind rememberance of her pregnancy. All it takes is some salt, a couple of eggs, a little ability as a seamstress and...a placenta. Yes, now you finally have a use for all that unexpected afterbirth that gets delivered along with the expected bundle of joy. Some of the more adventurous mothers have been known to (I swear I am NOT making this up) cook and EAT the aforementioned placenta. If you aren't feeling quite so adventurous, you can have your placenta cured, tanned and crafted into a Teddy Bear. It will also be placed in a jar to show on your shelf. A definite conversation piece if there ever was one.
One of the comments on the website this is from summed this idea up nicely: "It's like Hannibal Lecter and FAO Schwartz teamed up to design a toy!"
So what do YOU think? Would YOU want an "Afterbirth Teddy Bear"? Would you want your parents to have one of these on their fireplace mantle?
Doing It For The Kids??
Read more: http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendId=16563539&blogId=537612741#ixzz0uwOAtjuY
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Why I Believe I'm God's Chew Toy
I've posted several blogs in the past where I've made the comment that I believe that my only purpose on this Earth is to give God something to play with....a "chew toy" if you will. My reasons for this are legion, but I'll try to keep it down to a maximum of ten or so.
First off, God blessed me with the ability to notice things that probably shouldn't be noticed...or at least not noticed and commented on. The first time this happened to me, I couldn't have been more than 8 or 9. My dads older sister had come up for a visit and was getting ready for bed one night. She had on a ratty, old nightgown and no robe. She came into the living room and stood with her back to me and said to my dad, "Cecil, do you know what I'm thinking?"
Without missing a beat, I piped up and said, "Yeah...you're thinking there ain't a hole in the back of your nightgown, but there IS!" She didn't say another word. She just blushed furiously and walked very fast (backwards) to the guest bedroom. My DAD, on the other hand, was laughing so hard I think he may have pissed himself.
In later years, I would see things and point them out. Sometimes my timing wasn't all that good. For instance, I learned in Jr. High that not all school teachers are good spellers and tend to get a trifle annoyed when you point out their spelling mistakes in class. That little case of "noticing" got me moved to another class in exchange for another student and "a cheerleader to be named later".
In High School, I learned that trying to do a girl a favor by pulling her skirt out of her butt crack will not only not be appreciated by said girl, but can get you moved to the top of her boyfriend's "People Whose Ass I Need to Kick" list. That was the situation that also resulted in my discovery that God blessed me with a silver tongue. I'm not certain, but I think I talked so fast getting out of THAT little scrape that I sounded like an auctioneer on meth.
In college, my "noticing ablility" along with my warped sense of humor got me in a small amount of trouble. On the double doors to the Chorale Music Room, someone had put a sign on one of the doors that said, "Please use other door". I couldn't help myself. Using a Sharpie I wrote below the notice, "This one's Baroque". I don't know why the music director was so annoyed. Everyone else thought it was hilarious. College was also where I learned that it's never a wise policy to tell a Philosophy professor that he's as "Full of crap as a Christmas turkey" when he's trying to explain the concept that the chair I'm sitting in "isn't really there". This profound statement on my part resulted in me having to tell my Dad later that semester, "Dad, that 'F' isn't really there..." Needless to say, he didn't buy it.
As I've gone through my adult years, God has put things in my path (with malice aforethought) just to mess with my head. Some have been more frightening than others...the 400 pound lady jogging in shocking pink Spandex running shorts that were stretched so tightly across her backside that they were nearly invisible jumps immediately to mind. THAT vision nearly caused me to drive my car up a light pole. Then, He's sent people my way that had kids they had no business in having which made me wonder why my wife and I (who desperately wanted to have kids and couldn't) were having to give "pointers" to this couple who not only didn't seem to know what was CAUSING these kids to appear, but had no friggin' clue what to do with 'em once they started talking!
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. Not one bit. I feel a certain amount of pride and pleasure that I've been given this gift...though sometimes I wish I'd kept the receipt. I've been told that I don't "take life seriously enough". I always ask, "Why should I? No one gets out of it alive. Why not have as much fun as is legally possible while you're here?" That's not to say that I don't have obligations or that I don't take those obligations seriously. I know that if the rent and utilities don't get paid, I'll be sitting on the curb in the dark. BUT...I don't see the need or point in stressing out over stuff that I can't control.
The one thing that I simply DO NOT understand is the concept, emotion or whatever you want to call it called, "Jealousy". I have a lot of female friends. Some are very close and others are close but not VERY close. My wife knows this and has no issues with it. Not because she doesn't CARE but rather because she TRUSTS me. On the other hand, I know women who are friends whose husbands are JEALOUS...of ME. Why?? I have no clue. No woman is going to leave her husband for me. I've seen myself naked. I KNOW this is not going to happen. So, jealousy is something I simply DO NOT "get". Are some men so insecure that they think their spouse is going to leave them for the first guy that is nice to them?? If so, they have bigger issues than most and should be actively seeking professional help from a Psychiatrist AND a Marriage Counselor. I'm not the jealous type...never have been. To me it's a waste of time and energy. Jealous people should be slapped three ways: hard, fast and continuously until they snap out of it...in my opinion.
So, in closing...look around, folks. See the weird stuff. You don't have to HUNT for it...it's right there in plain sight. Drive up ATM's with Braille on the keys...bright yellow signs with red letters that AREN'T in Braille on business doors that say, "No dogs allowed except seeing-eye dogs"...billboards that say, "Illiterate? Need Help? Call 1-800..."...blank sheets of paper in a manual that say "This page intentionally left blank" which means it's not REALLY blank after all...and the list goes on and on. See the strange, bizarre stuff that is in this world we live in....and LAUGH. Write about it, talk to others about it...but most importantly...LAUGH ABOUT IT!!
Life is too short to not have fun with it while you have it. If anyone tries to tell you differently, smack 'em in the face with a cream pie!
First off, God blessed me with the ability to notice things that probably shouldn't be noticed...or at least not noticed and commented on. The first time this happened to me, I couldn't have been more than 8 or 9. My dads older sister had come up for a visit and was getting ready for bed one night. She had on a ratty, old nightgown and no robe. She came into the living room and stood with her back to me and said to my dad, "Cecil, do you know what I'm thinking?"
Without missing a beat, I piped up and said, "Yeah...you're thinking there ain't a hole in the back of your nightgown, but there IS!" She didn't say another word. She just blushed furiously and walked very fast (backwards) to the guest bedroom. My DAD, on the other hand, was laughing so hard I think he may have pissed himself.
In later years, I would see things and point them out. Sometimes my timing wasn't all that good. For instance, I learned in Jr. High that not all school teachers are good spellers and tend to get a trifle annoyed when you point out their spelling mistakes in class. That little case of "noticing" got me moved to another class in exchange for another student and "a cheerleader to be named later".
In High School, I learned that trying to do a girl a favor by pulling her skirt out of her butt crack will not only not be appreciated by said girl, but can get you moved to the top of her boyfriend's "People Whose Ass I Need to Kick" list. That was the situation that also resulted in my discovery that God blessed me with a silver tongue. I'm not certain, but I think I talked so fast getting out of THAT little scrape that I sounded like an auctioneer on meth.
In college, my "noticing ablility" along with my warped sense of humor got me in a small amount of trouble. On the double doors to the Chorale Music Room, someone had put a sign on one of the doors that said, "Please use other door". I couldn't help myself. Using a Sharpie I wrote below the notice, "This one's Baroque". I don't know why the music director was so annoyed. Everyone else thought it was hilarious. College was also where I learned that it's never a wise policy to tell a Philosophy professor that he's as "Full of crap as a Christmas turkey" when he's trying to explain the concept that the chair I'm sitting in "isn't really there". This profound statement on my part resulted in me having to tell my Dad later that semester, "Dad, that 'F' isn't really there..." Needless to say, he didn't buy it.
As I've gone through my adult years, God has put things in my path (with malice aforethought) just to mess with my head. Some have been more frightening than others...the 400 pound lady jogging in shocking pink Spandex running shorts that were stretched so tightly across her backside that they were nearly invisible jumps immediately to mind. THAT vision nearly caused me to drive my car up a light pole. Then, He's sent people my way that had kids they had no business in having which made me wonder why my wife and I (who desperately wanted to have kids and couldn't) were having to give "pointers" to this couple who not only didn't seem to know what was CAUSING these kids to appear, but had no friggin' clue what to do with 'em once they started talking!
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. Not one bit. I feel a certain amount of pride and pleasure that I've been given this gift...though sometimes I wish I'd kept the receipt. I've been told that I don't "take life seriously enough". I always ask, "Why should I? No one gets out of it alive. Why not have as much fun as is legally possible while you're here?" That's not to say that I don't have obligations or that I don't take those obligations seriously. I know that if the rent and utilities don't get paid, I'll be sitting on the curb in the dark. BUT...I don't see the need or point in stressing out over stuff that I can't control.
The one thing that I simply DO NOT understand is the concept, emotion or whatever you want to call it called, "Jealousy". I have a lot of female friends. Some are very close and others are close but not VERY close. My wife knows this and has no issues with it. Not because she doesn't CARE but rather because she TRUSTS me. On the other hand, I know women who are friends whose husbands are JEALOUS...of ME. Why?? I have no clue. No woman is going to leave her husband for me. I've seen myself naked. I KNOW this is not going to happen. So, jealousy is something I simply DO NOT "get". Are some men so insecure that they think their spouse is going to leave them for the first guy that is nice to them?? If so, they have bigger issues than most and should be actively seeking professional help from a Psychiatrist AND a Marriage Counselor. I'm not the jealous type...never have been. To me it's a waste of time and energy. Jealous people should be slapped three ways: hard, fast and continuously until they snap out of it...in my opinion.
So, in closing...look around, folks. See the weird stuff. You don't have to HUNT for it...it's right there in plain sight. Drive up ATM's with Braille on the keys...bright yellow signs with red letters that AREN'T in Braille on business doors that say, "No dogs allowed except seeing-eye dogs"...billboards that say, "Illiterate? Need Help? Call 1-800..."...blank sheets of paper in a manual that say "This page intentionally left blank" which means it's not REALLY blank after all...and the list goes on and on. See the strange, bizarre stuff that is in this world we live in....and LAUGH. Write about it, talk to others about it...but most importantly...LAUGH ABOUT IT!!
Life is too short to not have fun with it while you have it. If anyone tries to tell you differently, smack 'em in the face with a cream pie!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Couple of Stories From My Past
In order to bring a few of you up to speed, I've decided to start writing down some of the stories that I've personally told on myself. These are stories from when I was in Junior High and High School. Some are common, some are unusual, most are funny...or I'll do my best to make them so. They won't be in any particular order and they may not be consecutive. But it helps to get some things out in the open. Some things that might have been painful at the time, but can now be looked back upon with a smile or even a laugh. F'rinstance...
The Private History of a Baseball Tryout That Failed
When I was in school, I wasn't encouraged to "go out" for any athletics. Between my natural born clumsiness and my parents fear that I would screw my bad leg up even worse, I was not "allowed" to participate in contact sports, such as football. I was, however, grudgingly allowed to play "sandlot baseball". This is where you just get a bunch of kids together and they take turns "playing baseball" but are, in reality, simply trying to see how close they can pitch to the batter without actually hitting him (or in some cases, her).
Actually, I had a good arm. I could throw a ball quite well and fairly accurately...at long distances. But I couldn't hit worth a damn. I had no "depth perception" and was just as likely to swing well before the ball crossed the plate as I was after it was already in the catcher’s glove. On the rare occasions that I actually GOT a hit, it was usually only a single. On the upside, it did prove to me that there WAS such a thing as Divine Intervention, because there was no way I could hit a ball without it.
My sophomore year, I was playing with the gang and got hit with a wild pitch. It hit me right below the left kneecap and right on the tendon. My leg did what any leg would do under the circumstances...it folded under me and I went down like a bag of rocks. All I remember thinking was, "How in the hell do I explain to the Old Man how I broke my leg?" As luck would have it, it wasn't broken but it did hurt for several days afterward.
The following year, having obviously NOT learned my lesson, I was again hanging out by the baseball field. Tryouts were going on and I was standing in the "pasture" that was well beyond the outfield, probably a good 600 feet from the backstop. I saw a kid hit a ball and watched as it sailed way up into the sky, hit its apex and came down onto the grass a few feet away. I walked over and picked up the shiny, white ball and looked toward the infield. The kid on the mound was yelling, "Hey! Can you bring that back here so we can practice?"
Now, I'll admit here and now...I was a lazy assed kid. I wasn't about to "walk" that far for a lousy baseball. The pitcher was standing there, waiting. So, I simply threw the ball back. I missed the pitcher but the ball DID make it to the catcher, albeit the ball was almost in the dirt when it got there. I saw the coach and he was looking from the catcher, back to me and back. Finally, he yells, "C'mere, Johnny!"
Grumbling about the walk, I went over to where the coach was. "Can you ALWAYS throw like that?" He asked. I replied that I could but that I couldn't hit well. He said, "I can teach you that. Hunker down here behind the plate for me."
"Great", I thought, "I couldn't 'hunker down' if you held a gun to my head...", but I did the best I could. The batter came up and on the first pitch, bunts the ball. I hear the coach yell out, "Catcher's ball! GET IT!" I got it. Then he yells, "Throw to first!"
Here is where the coach learned that 90 feet was too close for me to get a proper feel...at least under pressure...of the ball. I made a beautiful throw to first base. Unfortunately, I threw the ball too low...and hit the base runner in the back of the head.
He was "out" three feet before he got to the base. I don't mean "tagged out", I mean "out" as in, "Cold-as-a-wedge out".
He never knew what hit him. Unfortunately, the coach did, as well as the rest of the players. Once it was established that I hadn't killed the poor kid, the coach took me aside and suggested I might do something different for the team...such as "water boy"
Warning: Contents Under Pressure!
Now that I've told you about how I thoroughly embarrassed myself on the baseball field, let me share a story with you of how my mother accidentally caused me to embarrass myself while I was at school. I know you're thinking, "How can he blame his MOTHER for something that happened at school!?" Trust me. I CAN and you will too once I explain what happened.
I was in the 8th grade. The same was true back in the Dark Ages of my educational past just as it is now...kids at that age eat a lot of junk food. I was no exception. My parents, having both come of age during the 1930's, were Firm Believers of the efficacy of "Home Remedies"...such as warm olive oil dropped in the ear for an earache, dissolving an aspirin on a tooth for a toothache (a particularly vile remedy) and Mineral Oil or Milk of Magnesia as a "Spring Tonic" (i.e. "laxative").
Unbeknownst to me, mom had slipped some mineral oil into my orange juice at breakfast one morning. Mineral Oil is odorless, tasteless and is uncommonly good for many uses...including use as a "Spring Tonic". After I ate breakfast and headed out the door to the bus stop, Mom stopped me and gave me a dose of Phillips Milk of Magnesia. It seems she had forgotten about the mineral oil....or that was what she later claimed. Since I didn't KNOW about the oil, I willingly took the Milk o' Mag.
Flash forward to 2nd hour...about ....10 a.m.
I'm in my Oklahoma History class when a "pain" hits me. I raised my hand (as was the custom) and asked to be excused. The teacher, Mr. Larremore, shook his head and went on with his lecture. The "pain" hit me again. I knew things were imminent and stood up and said I was sorry but I HAD to go and hurried out the door.
I learned a Valuable Lesson that day: If you fear that you are about to suffer from Explosive Diarrhea, DO NOT RUN to the bathroom! Why? Because if you DO you won't NEED to "go" once you get there! You will have learned, as I did, that all this does is encourage the diarrhea to turn out and see what all the excitement is.
So...I sat in the boys restroom. And I waited. I cleaned myself up as best I could, but I didn't leave the bathroom. There was NO WAY I was leaving that bathroom. After about 15 minutes, my teacher came looking for me. I wasn't that hard to find because (as I later discovered) I had left a trail on my frantic but futile journey. When he came in and realized what had happened, he left and got the Principal...who was also the track coach. To their credit, neither of them laughed...at least not in my presence. However, during the interval between the Principal going and getting me two pairs of sweats so I could go to the gym, shower off and change clothes, the bell rang for class change.
This has since been remedied but is also the basis for my dislike of restroom stalls with no doors on them. As I sat and waited, my male classmates came in to see what was going on. One of them asked me what happened and I replied, "Too...much...pressure!" This caused great hilarity to my classmates and by the end of the school day, EVERYONE knew. And when I say everyone, I mean EVERYONE!! Kellyville was a small school with grades K through 12 all on one campus at that time. I had 5 and 6 year olds running by me on the playground, holding their noses (even though I was clean) and ....Upper Classmen and women offering me rolls of TP as I'd walk down the hall. Teachers even asked me if I needed to "go" if I so much as shifted position in my seat.
It was embarrassing as hell at the time, but I noticed something unusual later that same week. I had left a "Legacy". The building I had classes in had hardwood floors that were laid down in the 1930's. They had been waxed and varnished many times over the years, with each layer of wax and varnish stacking up like rings on a tree. The "trail" that I had left behind me in my mad rush to the restroom had resulted in having left a permanent trail that is, as far as I know, still there. What ever was in me had eaten through the generations of varnish and wax right down to the bare wood by the time it was cleaned up by the janitor...which was done within 10 to 15 minutes of my accident. Unless the floor has been replaced or sanded since I graduated in 1980, that trail is still there.
When I got home at the end of what had to be THE Longest Day of my Life, I told my folks what had happened in school that day. Dad laughed. Mom was appropriately apologetic and I was scarred for life. But that's what being a pre-teen is all about, right? And besides, who else can say they left such a unique mark on the (literal) Halls of Learning?
The Private History of a Baseball Tryout That Failed
When I was in school, I wasn't encouraged to "go out" for any athletics. Between my natural born clumsiness and my parents fear that I would screw my bad leg up even worse, I was not "allowed" to participate in contact sports, such as football. I was, however, grudgingly allowed to play "sandlot baseball". This is where you just get a bunch of kids together and they take turns "playing baseball" but are, in reality, simply trying to see how close they can pitch to the batter without actually hitting him (or in some cases, her).
Actually, I had a good arm. I could throw a ball quite well and fairly accurately...at long distances. But I couldn't hit worth a damn. I had no "depth perception" and was just as likely to swing well before the ball crossed the plate as I was after it was already in the catcher’s glove. On the rare occasions that I actually GOT a hit, it was usually only a single. On the upside, it did prove to me that there WAS such a thing as Divine Intervention, because there was no way I could hit a ball without it.
My sophomore year, I was playing with the gang and got hit with a wild pitch. It hit me right below the left kneecap and right on the tendon. My leg did what any leg would do under the circumstances...it folded under me and I went down like a bag of rocks. All I remember thinking was, "How in the hell do I explain to the Old Man how I broke my leg?" As luck would have it, it wasn't broken but it did hurt for several days afterward.
The following year, having obviously NOT learned my lesson, I was again hanging out by the baseball field. Tryouts were going on and I was standing in the "pasture" that was well beyond the outfield, probably a good 600 feet from the backstop. I saw a kid hit a ball and watched as it sailed way up into the sky, hit its apex and came down onto the grass a few feet away. I walked over and picked up the shiny, white ball and looked toward the infield. The kid on the mound was yelling, "Hey! Can you bring that back here so we can practice?"
Now, I'll admit here and now...I was a lazy assed kid. I wasn't about to "walk" that far for a lousy baseball. The pitcher was standing there, waiting. So, I simply threw the ball back. I missed the pitcher but the ball DID make it to the catcher, albeit the ball was almost in the dirt when it got there. I saw the coach and he was looking from the catcher, back to me and back. Finally, he yells, "C'mere, Johnny!"
Grumbling about the walk, I went over to where the coach was. "Can you ALWAYS throw like that?" He asked. I replied that I could but that I couldn't hit well. He said, "I can teach you that. Hunker down here behind the plate for me."
"Great", I thought, "I couldn't 'hunker down' if you held a gun to my head...", but I did the best I could. The batter came up and on the first pitch, bunts the ball. I hear the coach yell out, "Catcher's ball! GET IT!" I got it. Then he yells, "Throw to first!"
Here is where the coach learned that 90 feet was too close for me to get a proper feel...at least under pressure...of the ball. I made a beautiful throw to first base. Unfortunately, I threw the ball too low...and hit the base runner in the back of the head.
He was "out" three feet before he got to the base. I don't mean "tagged out", I mean "out" as in, "Cold-as-a-wedge out".
He never knew what hit him. Unfortunately, the coach did, as well as the rest of the players. Once it was established that I hadn't killed the poor kid, the coach took me aside and suggested I might do something different for the team...such as "water boy"
Warning: Contents Under Pressure!
Now that I've told you about how I thoroughly embarrassed myself on the baseball field, let me share a story with you of how my mother accidentally caused me to embarrass myself while I was at school. I know you're thinking, "How can he blame his MOTHER for something that happened at school!?" Trust me. I CAN and you will too once I explain what happened.
I was in the 8th grade. The same was true back in the Dark Ages of my educational past just as it is now...kids at that age eat a lot of junk food. I was no exception. My parents, having both come of age during the 1930's, were Firm Believers of the efficacy of "Home Remedies"...such as warm olive oil dropped in the ear for an earache, dissolving an aspirin on a tooth for a toothache (a particularly vile remedy) and Mineral Oil or Milk of Magnesia as a "Spring Tonic" (i.e. "laxative").
Unbeknownst to me, mom had slipped some mineral oil into my orange juice at breakfast one morning. Mineral Oil is odorless, tasteless and is uncommonly good for many uses...including use as a "Spring Tonic". After I ate breakfast and headed out the door to the bus stop, Mom stopped me and gave me a dose of Phillips Milk of Magnesia. It seems she had forgotten about the mineral oil....or that was what she later claimed. Since I didn't KNOW about the oil, I willingly took the Milk o' Mag.
Flash forward to 2nd hour...about ....10 a.m.
I'm in my Oklahoma History class when a "pain" hits me. I raised my hand (as was the custom) and asked to be excused. The teacher, Mr. Larremore, shook his head and went on with his lecture. The "pain" hit me again. I knew things were imminent and stood up and said I was sorry but I HAD to go and hurried out the door.
I learned a Valuable Lesson that day: If you fear that you are about to suffer from Explosive Diarrhea, DO NOT RUN to the bathroom! Why? Because if you DO you won't NEED to "go" once you get there! You will have learned, as I did, that all this does is encourage the diarrhea to turn out and see what all the excitement is.
So...I sat in the boys restroom. And I waited. I cleaned myself up as best I could, but I didn't leave the bathroom. There was NO WAY I was leaving that bathroom. After about 15 minutes, my teacher came looking for me. I wasn't that hard to find because (as I later discovered) I had left a trail on my frantic but futile journey. When he came in and realized what had happened, he left and got the Principal...who was also the track coach. To their credit, neither of them laughed...at least not in my presence. However, during the interval between the Principal going and getting me two pairs of sweats so I could go to the gym, shower off and change clothes, the bell rang for class change.
This has since been remedied but is also the basis for my dislike of restroom stalls with no doors on them. As I sat and waited, my male classmates came in to see what was going on. One of them asked me what happened and I replied, "Too...much...pressure!" This caused great hilarity to my classmates and by the end of the school day, EVERYONE knew. And when I say everyone, I mean EVERYONE!! Kellyville was a small school with grades K through 12 all on one campus at that time. I had 5 and 6 year olds running by me on the playground, holding their noses (even though I was clean) and ....Upper Classmen and women offering me rolls of TP as I'd walk down the hall. Teachers even asked me if I needed to "go" if I so much as shifted position in my seat.
It was embarrassing as hell at the time, but I noticed something unusual later that same week. I had left a "Legacy". The building I had classes in had hardwood floors that were laid down in the 1930's. They had been waxed and varnished many times over the years, with each layer of wax and varnish stacking up like rings on a tree. The "trail" that I had left behind me in my mad rush to the restroom had resulted in having left a permanent trail that is, as far as I know, still there. What ever was in me had eaten through the generations of varnish and wax right down to the bare wood by the time it was cleaned up by the janitor...which was done within 10 to 15 minutes of my accident. Unless the floor has been replaced or sanded since I graduated in 1980, that trail is still there.
When I got home at the end of what had to be THE Longest Day of my Life, I told my folks what had happened in school that day. Dad laughed. Mom was appropriately apologetic and I was scarred for life. But that's what being a pre-teen is all about, right? And besides, who else can say they left such a unique mark on the (literal) Halls of Learning?
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