One of my favorite things about gaining weight is tying my shoes.
When you bend over, your gut smooshes your breathing parts and suddenly you are lacking for oxygen.
The resultant high is pretty sweet.
I used to get high.
Things I got high from:
Nail polish remover.
Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill wine.
This one time I thought I was so cool because I was high on the acid.
I went to this hippie party where normally I would have been a total outsider, but since I was high too, I thought I was totally an honorary cool hippie.
I stood in the kitchen, thinking how smart and cool I was, how my thoughts were just so enormously complex and crucial to the advancement of all human endeavours.
But then I looked at a stupid little plate of melting butter.
It waved at me and I giggled like an idiot.
I kept imagining it was saying 'Hey there!' in the accent of a local yokel.
Then I got hung up on the word yokel and really starting snorting with laughter.
One of the uber-cool hippies, standing nearby, shirtless and sunbronzed, fixed me with a withering stare.
In a tone as condescending, as murderously sarcastic, as you can imagine, he called the attention of the room to me and my friend Purvis the Butter, by loudly saying "Looook maaah, I'm on drugs."
All the hippies laughed at me.
Not in a nice, lets go get lunch from the dumpster and live off the grid way either.
More like a hey fatty, stick to Miller Lite and Pearl Jam kind of way.
Jeffrey leaves for work today, saying "Peace be with you-only I can say that, because I'm more irresponsible."
I do not know what that means.
I hear him muttering to himself at his locker, "Don't even think about taking your Ipod, Jeffrey".
He always self-admonishes like that, in a low, shaky mutter.
Jeffrey and his stupid Ipod.
I looked at the playlist on there, and it's not good.
Electric Light Orchestra.
He keeps his giant headphones on and tries to talk to you.
"HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF COKE ZERO?"
"Take your headphones off."
"No. No, you didn't."
I catch him with his headphones on at work.
He is dancing...or something. He is making an arch over his head, with his arms outstretched, and then slowly waving that arch from side to side.
"You can't be dancing at work, man."
"I'll dance quiet, I'm sorry." He makes the arch very subtly in front of his chest, just with his hands, and barely waves it around.
"Nope, that's weird."
I have to take his Ipod and he gets angry.
"I'm just going to get out of here. I am going to quit this school and make my own school. Then I am going to fire you." He laughs in a theatrically evil way.
Jeffrey, that would be the best gift you could ever give me.
I have only thrown up once from working in special education.
I had to clean this guy's butt, and he was probably one of the hairiest human beings that ever existed, at least since the dawn of the homo sapien era.
If you shaved it off, you would have had enough to donate to Locks of Love.
His favorite party trick was to poop his pants and then repeatedly bitch-slap you when you tried to take care of the problem.
It made you feel so happy.
On one occasion I just could not get old Marty clean; I had burned through half a box of wipes and stuff was still emerging from Buttock Forest.
My patented technique of not breathing through my nose was beginning to falter.
I kept thinking how the particles making an odor must also be in my mouth. The thought overwhelmed me.
I pivoted quickly to the toilet and vomited.
Then he slapped my wrist hard enough to crack the bone.
I discovered today that one of my student's likes to dress up as Tosha from Barney when he is at home.
He is a frail little white man, spoiled beyond all reason. His parents allow it because they are tired of fighting.
I can understand that, I guess.
But I cannot understand why his 300 pound mother insists on showering with him.
He is twenty-three, after all.
"She gets in the shower with you?" I ask him incredulously.
Most of the students are not reliable witnesses to their own lives, but this guy has been proven true many times over.
"Yeah," he says in his high, meek monotone voice.
"And you're naked?"
"No. I don't wear any clothes."
"And your mom is naked?" I am so afraid of the answer.
"Yeah." He smiles at me.
"And you get in the shower?"
He smiles again.
"Does she scrub your back?"
"Oh, you have to scrub the soap off of there."
"Do you scrub her back?" I ask.
My teacher cuts me off.
"Okay, Gweenbrick, that's enough."
"But I need to know-" I whine.
"No," she says, "No, you don't."
She recognizes when I am fishing for information from the students to gross myself out with.
It's how I pass the time.