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Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.

8/24/2004

DIARY OF INDIGNITIES
Even More Historical Indignities.
Age 7 – My mom schedules a doctor's appointment. I learn I'm to receive an immunization booster shot at this visit. Although I've never been particularly afraid of injections, I become terrified. During the two or three weeks prior to the appointment, I obsess over it, sweating and feeling nauseous at the thought of that needle entering my skin. I start having trouble sleeping at night, because I lie awake thinking of ways to escape. The day of the appointment arrives, and I become hysterical. My mother has to call my grandmother over, and somehow the two of them manage to force me into the car, crying and screaming. We get to the doctor's office, and I'm sticky with tears and racked with deep, troubling sobs. The doctor looks at me, smirks like I'm the biggest pussy he's ever seen and pulls out the needle. I turn away, feeling dizzy. He jams the needle into my shoulder without a word. It doesn't hurt — in fact, it doesn't feel like much of anything. I stop crying and turn to look at it as he injects the medicine. "That's it?" I think. "Why in the heck was I so worked up about THAT?"

Age 9 – Mom decides she can't live with "poisons" in the house anymore, so traditional methods of controlling fleas and roaches are out. For the roaches, we're now to use boric acid, a thick, white powder. Soon rows of this stuff line every windowsill and doorway in the house, clumping up with the humidity and collecting dirt and dead bugs. For the fleas, we place some sort of pungent leaves, many of which are still attached to their branches, all over our rugs and carpets. They soon turn brittle and brown. We leave them there. The few kids that were inclined to ever come over... Stop.

Age 12 – It's time to get a new bike. I decide I want one with a long front fork, like a motorcycle chopper. The
model I get is cherry red, with a big plastic hump in front of the seat that resembles a gas tank. I am stoked. Upon seeing my kick-ass new ride, pretty much every other kid in the world decides I am the biggest loser who ever lived. I regret my decision less than a week after getting the new bike, realizing I'm looking at least a year of bike-related abuse from my peers. Plus, the thing weighs, like, 1,000 pounds, and is a huge pain in the ass to ride. One day, I'm cruising along my street, and the glue holding the rubber handlebar grip gives out. The grip, along with my left hand, slides off, and I crash my face and right shoulder into the curb in front of a neighbor's house. I get up, dazed, and take stock of my injuries. My shirt is torn, my shoulder is scraped and blood is puring out of my face. The neighbor, a churchy type who's raking his front lawn as this happens, looks at me and says, "That's what you get for riding that bike."

Age 19 – I'm making out with a punk chick in a dark back corner of a bar. Even though I've generally held nothing but open disdain for the contrived, self-destructive side of old-school punk, doing something tough and sleazy seems appropriate, so I give myself a lighter burn. This involves heating up a disposable Bic for a minute or so and pressing the hot metal into skin. I jam the top of the lighter into my left bicep, instantly raising a blister in the shape of a happy face. Not wanting to be outmatched, my makeout partner hikes up her skirt and requests one as well. I burn a smiley face right on her tender inner thigh. She winces. My arm hurts. We now have matching smiley-face burn blisters. I wonder what the hell possessed me to do something so stupid, and consider throwing myself in front of a bus.

Age 32 – After going my entire life bumming rides from people or riding a bike everywhere, I finally get a driver license. Due to Florida law, this requires attending a mandatory three-hour seminar about the dangers of alcohol drug abuse, during which I get into a heated argument with a snippy 15-year-old girl about the best way to present our group project. I get my way, and the little snob pouts the rest of the class. A few weeks later, and I'm a licensed driver. "Why in the fuck did I wait so damn long to get my license?" I wonder. To this day, I still don't have an answer.

That's it! That's all of them! That's the end! No more indignities! Coming soon – the Diary of Triumphs!!! ...Not really.

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