March 9, 2005

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  My Serious Problem

  
  

   

  
  

  “You know, you have a serious problem, Daryl,” my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Hartman, said to me toward the end of one extended recess, “Do you know what your problem is?”

  
  

   

  
  

  I stopped to think as I emptied my overall pockets, which were stuffed senseless with all the sparkly pebbles I had stolen off the ground of the school’s playground. Spending the majority of my recess with my back arched toward the ground, I would take about thirty a day, leaving a small patch of the land bare and muddy. I planned on using them to sell to my peers for ten cents each, mainly because I was cheap and liked the idea of collecting shiny things.  Why my teachers thought I was psychotic, I had not a clue. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “Umm…”  If I had a bigger vocabulary, I probably would have responded with something along the lines of ‘I pick useless, worthless pebbles off the ground and sell them to my oblivious peers by means of making a profit and eventually spending it all on my beanie baby collection.”

  
  

   

  
  

  Instead, I said “I push boys in the mud.”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Exactly.” Mrs. Hartman said instantly after my response.  She paused.  “Wait.  No. No, not that. But I will definitely add that to my list of everything that is wrong with you. No. What your biggest problem is, Daryl, is that you don’t have any self control.

  
  

   

  
  

  I nodded my head almost too intensely as to express my strong agreement.  She smiled, patted me reassuringly on the back, told me to “Stop collecting shiny things before you turn into an even more obsessive compulsive version of Gollum” and walked off to further complicate the lives of other confused six year olds.

  
  

   

  
  

  After the whistle blew, I returned to my friends with only two questions burning in my mind:

  
  

   

  
  

  What is a shelf troll?  And why don’t I have one?

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  Train of Thought (Also known as 'The Rambles of a Not-Yet-Diagnosed ADD/OCD Patient')

  
  

   

  
  

  Years later, I would find out that ‘self control’ was a term used by those of higher authority to further separate themselves from the lesser beings of society that spend the majority of their lives pondering impossible possibilities while not doing their homework at the exact same time. 

  
  

   

  
  

  That is my definition, anyway.  I guess I never really got a grasp of the true meaning of the word ‘control.’  I often just skim around it, catch a brief glimpse at what it looks like.  Control?  It means organization.  Control? Oh, it means to have limits. Control? Doesn’t that mean to be steady? Paced? Frizz-free? But because I apparently lack in the ‘control’ department, I have learned to replace that word with better ones. 

  
  

   

  
  

  For example, what I lack in self control, I make up for in self absorbance.

  
  

   

  
  

  I’m so deeply self-absorbed that I talk to myself.  Not just like “Oh, crap, I forgot the stapler.”  It’s more along the lines of “Oh, crap, you forgot the stapler.”

  
  

   

  
  

  Now it comes naturally, but back in the fifth grade, my friends and I used to make bets with each other to see how long we could refer to ourselves in the third person.  Daryl wants to jump rope.  Daryl wants your jello.  I hate you, said Daryl.  However, this method was found to be unsuccessful after and my teacher, Mrs. Morrissey, called on me and my frantically waving hand.

  
  

   

  
  

  “Yeah?”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Daryl has to go to the bathroom.”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Daryl? Aren’t you Daryl?”

  
  

   

  
  

  “She says yes.  Can she go to the bathroom?”

  
  

   

  
  

  “No.”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Daryl says why not?”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Just no.”

  
  

   

  
  

  “Daryl says she’s really gotta go.”

  
  

   

  
  

  She thought for a moment. 

  
  

   

  
  

  “Fine, but be back soon.”

  
  

   

  
  

  Then she walked over to the other side of the blackboard and handed me one of the hall passes.  The one that, etched in blue ink, read ‘Guidance.’

  
  

   

  
  

  Actually, back then I didn’t even use the word ‘bathroom’.  Up until the beginning of seventh grade, I called it the Potty.  In kindergarten, first and second grade it was considered cute.  By the time we were learning times tables in third grade, people began questioning.  In fourth grade, there was just nothing funnier than the little fat kid in the pink ruffled leggings skipping around whining “Wahhh, wahhhh, I have to go to the potty.  Wahhh.”  In fifth grade, it just led to more meetings with the guidance counselor.  In sixth grade, after I entered middle school and felt profoundly inferior in comparison to everyone else, I used it as a tool to express my individuality right along with my spandex tie-dye pants and tarot cards.  And eventually, after a few months into seventh grade, I came to the conclusion that the kids weren’t teasing me because I still watched the Rugrats, but because of my ability to talk like one. 

  
  

   

  
  

  I’ve also come to the conclusion that when I write in this journal, I only talk about how strange I am.  You may also notice that all the strange instances never reach past the seventh grade.  I could tell you it’s because I’ve officially grown out of the whole I’m A Freak But I’m Okay With That phase.  But in all honesty, I’m really not.  In fact, I’m probably stranger than I’ve ever been in my entire life.  I just don’t talk about it that often because my current weirdness is well….current.  Meaning that I’m still living in it.  And since I talk to myself and therefore consider myself a separate person from myself, I don’t feel comfortable gossiping about me. 

  
  

   

  
  

  So instead I’ll talk about what I really want to do right now.  Which is go outside and scream really loud.  It would probably feel very relieving.  However, just like everything else I really want to do, the consequences are endless.  For one, I live in the suburbs.  For two, the last time I did that, every dog in the neighborhood starting howling.  For three, I’ve been pretty good at concealing my insanity recently.  I’m on a role, in fact.  Therefore, no. 

  
  

   

  
  

  I also want to stage dive and/or crowd surf.  But considering the fact that the most rowdy concert I’m allowed to go to is Zootopia, I’m pretty sure that is not going to happen for at least the next four years.  I want to go to a crazy concert with good music. Crowd surfing at Zootopia.  That would only be crazy in the sense that the people lifting me up would be less than ninety pounds, age twelve, wearing belly shirts, and female.

  
  

   

  
  

  I just realized that this entry is aimless and way too long.

  
  

  But, I always wanted to write an aimless entry, anyway.

  
  

   

  
  

  So now that I accomplished that, I’m going to go to my room and draw my broken lava lamp.  Which represents me on so many levels. 

  • 8:46 pm
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