An Introduction of Sorts

“You and me, we go together like puzzle pieces.

…Well, like the only two pieces that don’t go together or even fit in the puzzle. So, we’re perfect for each other!”

I’ve found that most of the things I initially dislike end up becoming some of my favorites. That’s how I got one of my dear friends:

August 2007,  6^th Period Health class. 55 minutes until dismissal.

            One last moustache, and – perfect! Another beautifully wasted class period doodling over textbook pictures.

 Looking up from my artwork I saw no particularly friendly faces. Lots of letterman jackets, a couple of grey sweatshirts, a Vera Bradley, but no faces. As a high school freshman and a new kid, I tended to think in clothing and stereotypes. 

A flannel shirt across the room started making a bit of a scene. He was always very loud, not always intentionally – he just had one of those deep, bass voices that carried like a foghorn. A mix between Bing Crosby, James Earl Jones, and gravel.

Normally, he would pass his completed, Grade A worksheets around for the rest of the class to copy. A smart guy, a nice guy, maybe, but definitely a cheater. A very loud cheater. The sort of very loud cheater who was also charming enough to convince the teacher how funny and cute it was that he cheated. Everyone knows this class is ridiculously mindless, he would laugh. The very loud, very charming cheater.

I hated him.

Today, there was a bit of an issue regarding question 5 of the worksheet. He couldn’t find the answer in the textbook – which was the way you pretended to learn things, back in the day – and no one else seemed to, either. Not that they were trying, really.

In his frustration, Flannel stood up, 6’ high, and sauntered over to my desk.

I glared at him as politely as I could.

Naturally, my homework was completed correctly and in record time. I knew this, he knew this; it was common knowledge. That was the sort of tall, thin, self-conscious freshman girl I was. However, no one ever spoke to me, and I returned the favor.

He sat down at the empty desk to my left.

I calmly pretended he wasn’t there.

“Hey.”                            

            I kept acting oblivious. It could still work.

            “I know you can hear me,” he said and guffawed. That’s the exact word for it – a big, loud, cheating, charming guffaw.

            Hate. I looked up slowly.

            “Yes?” I asked, with my sweetest faux smile.

On cue, the 3:05 bell rang. I bolted.                          

With that in mind, and it being the new year and all, I’ve decided to take on a new personal project. One thing I particularly dislike is exposing myself, especially if it means delving into and sharing buried memories. I’m one of those fallible math-minds, the kind of person who has a perfect plan that inevitably messes up,  the sort of person who does not like to think about those failures but will analyze them to pieces anyway.

Writing is a beautiful outlet for that, so I'll share my writing with you.

I start with the things I know. This is who I am, what I have, what’s been composting inside me for my entire life. From clinging to my dad’s worn, leather copy of Dante before I could read,

to watching Twilight Zone and defending pineapple pizza from a dumb but endearing golden retriever,

to hitching a ride to my favorite apple orchard and rudely, accidentally criticizing the driver,

to singing Christmas carols in two-part off-key harmony to empty houses,

to hiding in the campus library from new people and scary situations,

to confronting those situations which are no longer avoidable. (The frat guys threw a party in my library. Nowhere is safe, now.)

This is the result of whatever happened to make my life as terrifying and ridiculous and beautiful as it [always]is.

Happy reading.