This Post Has No Title (Except For This One)

I was kind of a punkass little kid. In the course of my childhood, I...

- broke windows while hitting balls around my neighborhood.
- broke a kid's tooth with a "bowstaff" (random stick strategically wrapped with tape) while playing Ninja Turtles.
- broke the rules of board games when I thought no one was looking.
- broke numerous promises.
- regularly hit, kicked, manipulated, and otherwise antagonized siblings and neighborhood children.
- stole baseball cards from my little brother.
- was an all-around dick. To everyone.

And aside from the occasional grounding or admonishment, I got off scot free. Adults can't hold a grudge against an 8-year-old, and kids forgive easily. When I try to play Ninja Turtles now, I can't get away with half of what I used to. And no one wants to play. Is it because I always get to be Leonardo? Well tough shit. I'm the one with the He-Man sword. And it's not my fault if you don't wear a mouthguard.

I think this lack of consequences was the best part about being a kid. Everything was kind of a haze, and you would have to do something pretty horrible or great to interrupt the dreamlike status quo. One day's sworn enemy was the next day's lunch-swapping partner. Nowadays, if you happen to, say, put an earthworm in a girl's hair, you're apparently a "dickhole" or "douchebag" for the rest of your natural-born life. Whatever. Totally worth it.

Since consequences are so few, kids can be relatively guileless in their interactions. Piss someone off, and it'll pass. Do something stupid, and the other kids will forget. Get shot down for a recess date at the swingset, just cross her name off the note and send it to someone else. I really think the elementary school note is due for crossover success in adulthood. I miss the simplicity. Rather than wasting time trying to suss out whether someone likes you using inexact heuristics like body language or frequency of laughter, you can just ask. And by doing it in note form, you spare yourself a potentially awkward face-to-face rejection (and you get a hardcopy for your files).


I remember my note sending/receiving days. I know what you're thinking - "Shawn, your notes must have been great. No one could have possibly rejected you." Well thank you for thinking that. I remember thinking that as well, third-person perspective and all. But believe it or not, I wasn't always up to my ears in pigtails and retainers. Apparently I overestimated the coolness of writing. Some things never change. Still, I did alright. While I didn't have my own sleek, personal pencil sharpener, or a No Fear shirt, or Jonathan Taylor Thomas ("JTT", according to the posters) good looks, I made up for these obvious deficiencies with more mature, less superficial fare - like conversational skills, a Captain Planet lunchbox, and a totally killer POG collection. And I could run really fast. So I did get the occasional "Do you like me? Check 'yes' or 'no'" letter. But that doesn't mean I always said yes. Cooties were (and are) a real and present danger, and some of those girls were walking repositories. That's what happens when you hold the hand of every goofy, slimy 10-year-old boy who so much as loans you a colored pencil. If I'd given in to the temptation of those letters, who knows where I'd be today. Cooties have derailed untold kajillions of young lives.

But somehow, at any age, it always comes back to appearance. I remember one day in 3rd or 4th grade when a note made its way around the room to me. It was from a redheaded girl with freckles and a hole-filled smile. I was pretty happy to have an admirer - and a relatively cootie-free one, at that. I wondered whether it was my soccer skills or my coloring ability that she admired most. Either way, I knew she'd love getting one of the NFL Valentine's Day cards that I gave out every year. I'd sneak her a few extra heart candies, because that's what admirers do. Was she a good hand-holder? Had she given any thought to where we'd live after the wedding? (I voted Moon). How many babies would Santa's stork Milo bring us? I opened the note up, fully prepared to check "Yes" (or play it cool with "Maybe", if such a choice was offered).

I looked down excitedly, but the note did not contain a profession of like, or even answer boxes (blasphemy in those days). Instead, there was a crudely drawn spectrum, labeled "Cute" at one end, and "Ugly" at the other. It threw me off for a second, then I saw what she was getting at. Below, I have faithfully recreated the gist of the note:

----------------------------------------Shawn
Ugly-------------------------------------X-----------------------------------Cute

I guess it could've been worse. But at that moment, I knew we wouldn't be getting married. To this day, that note confuses me. She actually took time out of her busy life to not only ponder my appearance, but also to unsolicitedly let me know of the conclusion she'd come to. She could have been reading Goosebumps or Wayside School, but she instead decided to go out of her way to inform me of my averageness. It's like frantically sprinting a mile to the store so that you can lazily browse through magazines you know you won't buy. Was she trying to knock me down a peg? Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I'd shown her up earlier by pointing out that it was Paul Revere, not the Babysitter's Club, who yelled "The British Are Coming!". Who knows. Or maybe everyone secretly talked about how ugly I was, and her note was actually written out of kindness, letting me know that I wasn't really all that bad. Probably not. If I was smart, though, I would have turned the tables and made up my own Attractiveness Spectrum. It could have looked something like this:

That'd have shown her. I am patiently waiting for time travel, and for no other reason but this one. You might say that putting her so far to the left that she's subzero would be really mean, and I'd be inclined to agree. It would have ruled. All of this serves to prove that Little Me was, in spite of all the horrible things he did, still both a pussy and a much more mature person than 21-year-old Me.

The End.