Under the influence (of Dayquil)...

Being sick,
It can’t be good,
Some people fake it,
No one should.

Your head is hot,
Your feet are cold,
You stay in bed,
Like you are told.

Those are the first lines to a poem I wrote when I was in seventh grade. I was feeling lousy, and had come to school only because I had a social studies test to take that day. I finished the exam early, and was therefore sitting at my desk, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for the period to end. I got bored, and as I often did when I was bored, I started writing. Well, when all was said and done, I had 3 or 4 pages filled front and back with my soliloquy of flu-themed rhyming couplets. It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, but it amused me, and had thusly served its purpose.

Then, I started to get nervous. My teacher, a cranky, older gentleman who disapproved of anything not directly related to the study of socials, had begun to make his way over to my desk. While making his rounds, he had spotted me scribbling away, and consequently must have assumed I was up to no good.

In typical Junior High style, students in his class who had completed their work early were supposed to sit quietly at their desks and do nothing. Not talk. Not move. Not write. Not anything. Actually, looking back on it now, I think that’s kind of cruel. Asking someone at that age, with that many hormones running rampant through their body, to sit still and not act out in some fashion, is like asking a fat guy to wait in line at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

But I digress...

Upon reaching my desk, the teacher stopped. Angrily, he snatched the papers off my desk and shot me his best “I’m bigger and grumpier than you” look. Then he turned away from me and began to read what I had written.

Then, he began to laugh.

Not a big laugh mind you... we’re not exactly talking guffaws here, but still, it was a laugh nonetheless... and you’d think that might have comforted me, but you have to understand something... I wasn’t used to seeing this man adopt a demeanor that approached anything even resembling pleasant... so seeing him express himself like this wasn’t exactly encouraging... in truth, it just made me wonder about the sadistic thoughts that must be running through his mind... it was all rather unsettling.

And then, it was over.

He finished reading, chuckled one last time, put the papers back on my desk, and walked away. No comment. No look. Nothing.

He never mentioned anything about what I had written to me or anyone else, and today, those two opening stanzas are all I can remember of that poem. I’m sure there’s a copy of it floating around in a notebook somewhere in my parents’ house, but I’ll be darned if I have even the first clue as to where it might be.

So why did I bring all this up?

Did I really need to further illustrate the fact that I have always been a big dork? No. Anyone who has read more than a post or two here already knows that beyond the shadow of a doubt...

No, I brought it up because right now... I’m sick.

And ever since seventh grade, when I get sick, the first think that pops into my head are those first 29 words... they're indelibly imprinted into my cortex... no, they’re not exactly Shakespeare, but they still amuse me, and thusly, they serve their purpose.

Singing the praises of the period...

When it comes to punctuation, most people don’t give much props to the period. Sure it’s symmetrical and dependable and all, but for the most part it lives in the shadow of its flashier cousins. And that’s too bad. Because I think, if you really think about it (and apparently I have), it’s much more versatile then you may be thinking.

Take for example, the following sentence:

I want pie.

It’s a fine sentence. A declarative statement that is readily and easily understood. It’s plain to see that the person speaking would like some pie. No, it doesn’t tell you what KIND of pie they would like, or how much pie they’re planning on consuming, but still, you know the basics, and that’s pretty good.

Now watch what happens when we add in a couple more:

I. Want. Pie.

Quite a change there. By adding those two tiny dots we’ve made the same three words seem more forceful, more impactful. Now, it’s not a statement. It’s a command. This person’s perturbed, and they won’t be put up with a praline or a pudding pop, no siree Bob. This particular person won’t be pleased till they partake in some pie!

And yet there's more. Watch what happens when we move those three little periods around a bit.

I want pie...

Well that shook things up, didn’t it? Now we’ve got a full fledged mystery. A cliffhanger. It’s like grammatical film noir. You know pie is involved, but you feel like there’s more to the story. It could be something seedy... something illicit... something involving meringue.

It could be, but you don’t know, do you?


That my friend, is the power of the period.

Green means go...

It’s funny... ask a person to rate his or her driving skills, and he or she will most likely assure you that they are without a doubt an above average example of vehicular fortitude. Yup, nine times out of ten you’re bound to come across someone who wholeheartedly believes that they are without equal among their respective peers in the driving community. But as anyone who has driven on the streets of Boston will attest, this is, in reality, utterly impossible. And truth be told, most people will probably agree with you on that point too... they’ll just follow it up by reiterating that they ARE in fact above average, and it is EVERYONE ELSE who is misrepresenting their versatility with an ignition key.

Well, let me take a moment here to admit something...

I am NOT an excellent driver.

Ok, that’s probably the wrong way to phrase it... I mean, I’m probably better than rain man, but let’s be honest, that’s not saying too much. Sure, he talks a good game... but when everything’s on the line, I’d be willing to bet he crumbles like a soiled pair of k-mart underwear.

...I’ll give you a minute to get that visual out of your head.

Now, it’s not that I think I’m an exceptionally BAD driver (um... recent events not withstanding). I just wouldn’t call myself exceptionally skilled...

I’m not about to apply make-up in the rearview mirror, or try to outrun a Corvette with my Sentra, or play chicken with a bridge embankment... and I almost never play “top gun,” slamming on my breaks while traveling at high speeds so the people chasing me will “fly right by”

...not anymore anyway.

But gross negligences aside, I have to admit that I am susceptible to a veritable plethora of other distractions... the radio... engaging conversations... shiny objects. Even the daily routine of driving the same paths over and over can force me to lose focus from time to time.

Plus, I probably follow too close, accelerate too much, and generally act like an impatient 4-year-old standing six people deep in line for a sugar fix at the ice cream truck.

No, this isn’t really anything to be proud of (as my insurance premiums continually remind me), and I’m not proud of it... at all. But at least I’m brave enough to stand up and take responsibility for my own ineptitude.

Yes, my name is Flarf... and I am an average driver.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s not really anything to fear... and who knows... now that I’ve admitted it perhaps I’ll even be more attuned to the world around me... maybe now, when I am actually driving, I’ll be able to concentrate more on the task at hand... and maybe I’ll start to see my skills improving... and maybe someday I’ll even get to the point where I attain a level of proficiency at which I can once again legitimately consider myself to be counted among the more elite group of automotive enthusiasts who are truly gifted at their craft.

But in the meantime, if you look over and happen to see a black Nissan Sentra that appears to be missing its driver, don’t worry...

...that’s probably just me trying to find my ipod.

Random thought #26

When you pass someone in the hall going the opposite direction and they start talking to you... how far away do you have to get before it’s acceptable to stop responding?

...at what point does it just become yelling?



Hmmm... maybe all those people on city streets aren’t really crazy after all. Maybe they just forgot to stop talking.