Aug 23, 1982 – My first day of school.

Well, I’m told that school is something that I have to do. I don’t really care for the idea, to tell you the truth. I was pretty happy sitting at home watching Mr. Greenjeans act like a weirdo and eating grilled cheese sandwiches. Now all of a sudden, I have to go with mom to Hill’s and buy a backpack. I don’t really see the need for a backpack. I mean all I’m supposed to take with me is a pack of crayons and a box of Kleenex. The Kleenex won’t even fit in my backpack, and yet, here I go… off to school with a nearly-empty backpack and a box of tissues wedged under my arms.

I don’t really understand why we have to bring tissues. They stay on the teacher’s desk, and the ony one who seems to use them is my teacher. All of my classmates simply wipe their noses on their shirtsleeves. I mean, why else would we be wearing shirts, if not to wipe our faces with?

The day started out really boring. We walked in and had to find our names on a place-card. The only problem is there are about 9 kids named “Mike” in my class. All of them are wearing blue Izod shirts. I hate them all.

Izod. That stupid little alligator. And here I am wearing stupid hand-me-down Acapulco shirts from the 70’s. How am I ever going to meet any friends dressed like this? They obviously come from a rich family. Them and their stupid Izod shirts and Reebok shoes and… yes… Crayola brand crayons. I look at my box of crayons. It’s only then that I notice what Mom bought me; “Crayon” brand crayons. The word crayon was made to look like the Crayola logo! What a crock!

Milk break was so lame. That fascist teacher of mine decided on reverse alphabetical for the order to get in line for milk. Which put me toward the back. If you ask me, the alphabet is in forwards order for a reason. That’s just the way things are. You can’t just make up your own rules as you go along, lady.

So I get in line for milk, and by the time I get up to the cooler, there are only 2 or 3 cartons of chocolate left, and they all look like they’ve had chocolate milk leaked all over them. I can’t touch that, much less carry it all the way over to the table. Grudgingly, I pick up a 2% Milk and head over to sit with one of the Mikes. “Mike W.” to be precise. I notice he got a chocolate milk.

“You don’t like chocolate milk?” asked the Mike.

“Erm… they were all kinda yucky,” I answer.

“Cool shirt.”

I looked at him with narrowed eyes for a second. He was probably one of those homosexuals I’d been hearing about on the news. Oh well. “Thanks,” I said. “Say, you wanna trade milks?”

He looked down at his own chocolate milk and then over at mine. “Sure,” he said finally.

We traded milks and sat in silence. This “school” thing is going to be rough, I can tell.

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