The stories of my scars.

Do, do, do, la, la, la, la, do, do. As the world has spun on its slant axis, many odd objects have found themselves in violent encounter with my largest organ, these are The Stories of My Scars.

I guess you’d say that I do have a tattoo. Or as the cool kids would say, “I have a tat.”

Okay this is way off topic but it was very funny. My brother and friend Aaron were listening to a Christian radio station late at night. The DJ sounded like he was related to Barry White with not such a deep voice but very wispy. He was talking about something where he said, “dude with a tude.” Then he proceeded to explain, incase his listeners didn’t get it, that “a dude is a guy and a tude is an attitude.”

So my tat is from the hard days of grade school. I think that it was third grade. These were the days of the number 2 pencil, or as I learned to call it, the number 2 weapon. Our classrooms were amply equipped with sharpeners that could give a pencil a skin piercing sharpness.

My class was divided by the cool kids that had Yikes pencils, the girls that had Lisa Frank pencil boxes and the other kids. Then there were kids like me who would use broken Yikes pencils we found on the playground.

One ill fated day came upon us. I think I was returning from sharpening my pencil. A boy who was called Dillon walked by me. Ow. His pencil plunged into the flesh of my palm. I still bare the mark of this confrontation.