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.