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I was a prolific reader when I was a kid. In elementary school, they used to give you these coupons to get pizza if you read required books. You’d sit at what are now considered archaic computers and answer multiple choice questions to prove you know it. When all is finished, you’d have a button and coupon for a pan pizza. I would have read them without the pizza but, incentive via pan crust? C’mon.
At that age, I started having trouble with getting my letters confused and my hands would get tired when writing. I’d leave words out of sentences. I had a problem with pronouncing things, remember names and dates. It wasn’t anything on the level of needing special help. I was still an AG student and did the best I could but I’d have problems with phonics, and certain things took me away from the A+ life.
(You can listen to the audio version of this writing on iTunes or Google Play)
It’s beyond important you understand the clanking of glasses at of the end of the night, the rustling in desperation in hopes to fulfill a void, are not sounds I’m overly familiar with. This is not an expose’ on the plight of being unattractive you might expect. It’s not as if I’m the first unattractive person to share the struggles of being genetically challenged.
I write this tale with the inspiration of knowing, male or female, that being the ugliest one in the group doesn’t mean you can’t achieve the ultimate of human connection and intimacy. You do not have to accept a life of settling becoming your imminent future.
When I was seven years old, I put my school book bag on my both my shoulders and had it sit plumb in the middle of my back as backpacks were made to do. I walked to the bus stop near my house, and it was an extra frigid morning you could barely muster getting out of bed, but now blinking orange lights were something you prayed to see. My older brother came over to me and told me I was wearing my backpack wrong. He grabbed it, tossed it over my right shoulder with both straps on the same side and said, “There, that’s better.”
My brother was the quintessential All-American baseball star. The guy the girls wanted to date. When he was 12 he dated a 15 year old girl. He somehow pulled it all off while growing up on the wrong side of the tracks. Like most movies and novels that focus on the underdog, we lived on the wrong side of the tracks. Our tracks were less defined than the ones you see in John Hughes’ films or S.E. Hinton narratives of the Midwest, but they were there. They circled through from gas station to corner store and when you went past a certain section of town, sans a few isolated streets, you were indubitably on the wrong side. More