So I guess it’s the time of year to write a Valentine’s day blog. What presents to buy your significant other, how to prepare for a date, what to dress up as [ any time of year is Halloween if you wish hard enough ]. You know what… NO! I’m not conforming to your social norms. I ain’t no normie [ definition – I’m actually not too sure… ]. I’m going to do something better than Valentines. Do you see that manic glint in my eyes? That’s right. I’m going to write something with more action, more drama, more car chases and more heartbreak than you have ever seen. Well, actually, that depends on what you’ve seen. I’m just hoping that you live under a rock or in the closet under the stairs [ before Hagrid’s arrival, naturally ]. What to write though? How about the first [ and only time ] I ‘fought’ someone? That sounds good.
Let’s travel back to meet up with fourteen-year-old me. Now let me tell you. I was not a fighter, but a lover. If Mahatma Gandhi was reborn, he would most certainly be me. Ok, that’s a pretty big claim. I just didn’t have the muscle mass to be anything but a pacifist really. Our school also happened to have cliques and still does to this day. I happened to be in the least menacing which is another reason I couldn’t raise my fists. Our school really is just an episode of glee with all the drama, just in a different location and minus all of your favourite characters. So, naturally you have the ‘Jocks’ also referred to as the ‘lads’. This group is literally what it says on the tin. They eat about as much protein as a human can consume, play sports and make terrible jokes. You can usually find them beating each other up with books to ‘Shipping off to Boston’ when the school bell rings. Make sure to plan a route around that. Then you have the ‘Gents’ which includes me. The only reason we’re called this is because I ripped the sign off the men’s bathroom and hung it over our lockers. This group is basically a mixture of DWAY and OC united against a common enemy, the ‘Lads’. I really don’t know any of the other cliques but there are many more. I do know there is a specifically shady group which I will dub the ‘Vapes’, which is because, you guessed it, they vape. Which funnily enough is shunned in our school.
Anyway, on the day in question it happened to be ‘Kick a Ginger’ day and naive little me had not received the memo [the next year I came armed with shinpads from the time I was a mediocre hockey player]. All I received was an ominous text stating:
Get ready for tomorrow XD
I’d just like the time to thank South Park for this glorious day which all gingers think is possibly one of the greatest holidays out there right along with Christmas. Like we weren’t persecuted enough in the Great Leprechaun War. It’s a real war… *sigh*. Worth a shot! Some Americans don’t know we have our own language so… I came into school on that day fairly oblivious to what I was walking into, with my hair acting as a beacon to any malicious person. I happened to be one of the only redhead in the school as well. Which of course was going to work in my favour! I reached my locker and was awarded with a friendly tap on the shin and an explanation as to what this evil day was. I was not impressed. I got many more kicks that morning, learning later that somebody made a post on Facebook reminding everyone. What a fantastic soul. A fellow redhead and teacher found me distraught at my locker with bruised shins after having witnessed a few kicks. He was the one prompted the accident. So, I’d like him to share some of the blame. He said,
‘If they kick you just give them a belt and they won’t do it again’.
He didn’t know how literally I would take this. He couldn’t have known. His nose had been squashed by a boxers glove years ago so he probably gave out that advice on a daily basis. I, however, took it to heart and decided the next person to kick me was in trouble.
Now, I’m not exactly Mohammed Ali [the only boxer I know…] but I was ready. I wasn’t going to float like a butterfly or sting like a bee. Partially because I don’t have wings or a stinger, for that matter. My opponent stepped up to the ring fairly suddenly. My friend Richard. I’d also like to add that he was a 6 foot South African. I know what you are thinking. You wouldn’t punch your friend, especially a big guy like that. Once again I don’t conform to social norms. I got the tap on my shins which I basically treated like a starting bell and I swung. And boy did I swing. He went down. Don’t worry I’m not that strong, even fueled on anger. You, however, should have seen the horror and guilt flood across my face. Now that was priceless. There was blood seeping through his hands, however. I had pinned his cheek to his brace, which apparently is quite painful. Now, let me tell you that there were some screws loose in this boys head and I did not like one bit how he was sucking in air and muttering about how angry he was. To show you how nuts he was let me just say that he doesn’t believe that the moon landing actually happened. To this day! So, I did what any noble and self-respecting person would do. I took his hand, helped him up and breathily explained how it was the teachers fault. Yeah, I’m on your side, loyal reader. I’m a bit of a pest.
Dammit, I forgot the car chase bit. And that heartbreak section. Oh well. Maybe next time. ~Matt [hopefully you didn’t overdose on sarcasm reading this].