Tuesday, May 28, 2013

The History...


“Would a freak by any other name still be as strange?”  (with all due respect to Will Shakespeare)

    There is very little doubt that I am not the only freak, boy-freak, or freakboy electronically living in this vast cyberverse.  In fact, there may be some debate as to whether or not I am a freak.  I mean, come on, I chose the simple design for my blog!  Perhaps I suffer from freak-envy or just a long-term bout of delusions of freakiness.

    How did I come to be known as “freakboy”?  Why did I choose “tales from the freakboy zone…” as the title of my blog?  These questions are why, for my second entry, I have decided some explaining is in order, and maybe a little self-discovery along the way.

    Freak, know thyself…

    My first week of Kindergarten was spent at the end of a ridiculously long table, quite removed from the other children.  This was the result of my emotionally traumatic reaction to Kindergarten Round-Up.  I distinctly remember peering around the door and seeing a bunch of kids running around like a slew of schizophrenics.  Every fiber of my being cried out, “NO!” and Teach told my mom that it would be best to take me home.  I was pegged as a freak from day one, but I still managed to make one friend.

    In either 4th or 5th grade (I cannot remember which) the teachers, in a surprising act of generosity, were going to purchase cans of sodas for an upcoming field trip.  I recall that in my homeroom class every student, when asked, wanted a can of the hot (or rather cold) new drink Slice, with the exception of me.  I wanted a Coke.  You may think I’m exaggerating, but Teach singled me out and attempted to conform me to this miniature societal soda standard.  I did not cave, and in the end I received the soda of my choice, with a rather snide, “Here’s your Coke.”  Teach may as well have added, “…you freak!”

    In 7th grade English class, the teacher, for some naïve reason, trusted the class on its own for a few minutes.  One student convinced the entire classroom, except for yours truly, to gather in the hallway and lock the door behind them.  I’ll admit I thought it was an amusing idea, but I refused to participate because I didn’t want to get in hot water and be forced to spend more time in the confining, suffocatingly hellish walls of middle school!  In the end I let everyone back in the room, which may or may not have been a mistake.  While the word freak was not bandied about, you can imagine my popularity soared to leper status.

    These early occurrences seem to indicate freak, or are they simply freak occurrences?  You may marinate in this while I cut this increasingly lengthy entry short with my three favorite words in any language:

 

To be continued…

 

 

P.S.  I did eventually try Slice.  It tasted like someone urinated in vomit.

2 comments:

  1. Your postscript begs the question of how you know what urine soaked vomit tastes like.

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    Replies
    1. That is another entry for another time...: )

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