by Terceira Molnar

Created on: July 22, 2009

Pit stains the size of baseballs, Piglet hue skin, and a circa 1992 pair of oversized eyeglasses, mostly magnifying pink skin cheeks rather sight, are all trademarks of my puberty years. And also are staples of my teenage nightmares. Go ahead delight in this snapshot of low self esteem. The gray year is eighth grade, the class 5th hour Spanish one, the instructor is always in the gym miss maracas for the new Ph. Ed. stud, the friend score is none , and the boyfriend score is come on now, delight but do not indulge relived misery, fill in some voids alone. Alone is where I am in the front row left side of the classroom.

My hand-me -down faded sweater clung moist to my arm pits. Bullets of salted dew pelted down my sunburn side. An abort Casper complexion mission had failed. See snowflakes do not tan they melt with sweat in Espanola classe. My desk is pulled farther forward than normal because I accidently on purpose put them in my so hard to reach back pack before first hour began. My eyes are mere slits, pastel peach pockets. I am copying a list of school items down in a language I am barely passing in. The teacher stepped out for a drink of water in the gym. I make out a ninth grader in the corner of my eye with a cacti squirt bottle spraying his arm pits, and then make out laughter as he stumbles around the class squinting.

I pretended I could not see. Technically I could not so maybe I didn't either when I smashed my wet face into my pillow that night. And this has been a reoccurring episode to any insult I had received since. Until after high school where I had extra strength deodorant, porcelain chalked skin, and contacts in my lit green bare eyes. I still had no friends or boyfriends for awhile I was a loner and preferred it. But eventually I started seeing someone; we met at a local punk concert and hit it off. He was charismatic charming, and cocky which complimented nicely my quiet critical judgments. It was a surprise because we had met before and we did not shy away from where, he still looked like he was in ninth grade with a Mohawk and plant waterier who sat behind me in Spanish. And I never felt vengeful but perhaps I casual had grown to be, because I caught myself giving it to him every time.

It was too easy his initials spelled K.K.K and he had belly full of coolness and PBRs. He stroked his masculinity where ever he could and constantly scored any passing woman, even teenagers and grandmas. Eventually it began to catch up with his sight of self esteem and he often questioned if I had notebook kept of insults for him. Always I was innocent only kidding around, asking him if he could take a joke. But one day I laid on top of him pretending I was about to start giving it to him for the first time. I cradled his stomach, leaned over into his ear and tucking my blonde hair behind my ears and whispered, you are a bitch, in Spanish. He pounced right up stoned and annoyed by my attempts to persuade any of his emotions. And He began naming of the pit stains and eyewear trademarks to negate my ego booming boast.

I pushed him off the bed where he fell hard on the ground and grinned, "Good one, but hey did your dad cry?"

Puzzled he gathered himself into an Indian style sitting stance, "No wait about you, what?"

"When you told him you only drink beer, and check out bitches, because you're actually gay," I walked out and continue to walk out on every insult noticed. Even when I found out years late Mr. K married a mister because honestly honesty is the best comeback to any insult, even if it is a good one.

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