What epic story should I enchant you with? Shitting in my pants when I was young, running and slipping on the wet bathroom floor- Those tales are all too normal. So I've chosen to tell you a story I've kept a secret all my life until a few months ago, when I shared it with my siblings and got them cracked up. And then the tale spread to Min and Elselyn, and now between the five of us, it's still untold. It's an embarrassing story, you bet. Embarrassing, or more like pitiful, for the other character, that is.
Yes, the story starts now. I was eight, and I looked something like this.
Pictures make a blog post more interesting. And go watch the Simpsons!So moving on. I went for my first children's camp, staying in a dorm with other boys my age. In the dorm we did the usual stuff, like making beds. And being eight (and not having the best physical coordination), we took quite 'awhile' to get our beds fixed, all neat and proper. And so it turned out that each of our beds were our magnum opus, our prized possession. Something we all were proud of making ALL BY OURSELVES. (Big deal right, girls? This is male thing, anyway)
On one of the camp days, the tiniest, more irritating, fussiest (you get the point) dorm member was running around and in the process messed my bed up. (the is the part where you cover your mouths and say 'Oh no!') And being eight, another 'dis function' we possessed was an uncontrollable temper. (Ask around- you'll never find a boy who has never had an outburst. Min should know) So I stormed up to the guy. And shouted at him.
"Why you mess up my bed for?!"
I mentioned he was the most irritating of us all right? Right. So he started cackling the most irritating laughter that could even make a girl pull out her beautiful locks. And being the I-have-anger-issues eight year-old I was, I grabbed his neck. (This is the part you start pitying him) And started shaking his whole body with my hands around his neck. I didn't squeeze it. I think.
Then he knelt over and breathed his last breath.
Gotcha!
Note: No irritating boys were harmed in the making of this story. Instead, Mr. Irritating started cackling again and just ran off as if nothing happened.
I was still fuming (I think the other boys could see steam coming out of my ears) when the little man returned. With a teacher. (If you're new to this blog, welcome! I am scared of children's church teachers! Ask the regular readers) And tears more powerful than Niagara Falls were pouring down his face. (We should have given him an Oscar for the performance) So the teacher politely enquired (not really),
"Who made this boy cry?"
And all the honest, stubby fingers of the seven year old boys pointed to the notorious, I-make-neat-beds Mr. Cedric. Dude, I was ten times more pissed than Min could ever be. (If you haven't noticed, Min is always pissed at something/someone *haha*) Mob bosses and Chinese gangsters would have avoided me during that moment. So being the eight year old I was, I humbly received the teacher's lecture, apologized to the boy, hugged him, and continued camp in perfect harmony.
Dude! I was seven! Seven year olds are stubborn, stubborn, AND stubborn! And up until now, I have this stubborn rebellious streak in me. So I refused to say sorry to the irritating boy, and even refused to go up to the hall for the next session. So I sulked and emo-ed in the dorm. Alone. I was Mr. Stubborn, Pissed, and Emo at the same guy. (and that would make me Mr. Stubbissmo?)
Then I lay down and breathed my last breath.
If you fell for that I'd assume you're a robot who can't do the 'insert alphabets here' thing whenever you sign up for any account thingy. But the reason I did that is because this story will pretty lengthy. And I've just finished the introduction. (Okay, I'm only around half way through) So I'll save the climax for the next time the bloggers do their second 'episode' of stories. Until then, keep pitying the boy.
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