​High Noon Apologetic

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t.

Hold on though. Another year older, another year wiser so thirteen years later? Nope. Still not sorry.

Biannually and unrepentantly, I kick him while he’s down the best way a snake person like myself can: a trip to his facebook page to ridicule the human being I must have created the moment I smashed that piece of shit pow, right in the kisser, well the sniffer anyway, just like two generations of Vagnoni men and two and a half of Kennedy women, bless the bloodline, recommended to this eight year old.

I can still – who am I kidding, I still conjure the image of him holding his nose, blood dripping through his fingers, fouling the air with “I’m gonna tell on yous” (the third grade equivalent of “fuck you, I’ll curb stomp your ass if you don’t get away from my girlfriend”), threats of a true budding alpha male and hilarious in the face of the Ender Wiggin style beatdown he just endured.

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t.

Bane of school administrators for years to come, “troubled child,” fill-out-this-behavior-chart, oh, candidate for the honors program, I was fighting the hydra of bullying – punch one shitlord eight year old alpha in the face, two more sprout up, but this time they’re bureaucratic shitlords, parental shitlords. Irony of ironies, I was the bully in their eyes. Their 2, 4, 8 hydra eyes.

Behind the two eight year olds, two moms kept the peace, but just barely. I imagine now that we had to leave the dads out for exactly this reason. The moms stared viper stares at each other as the most insincere ritual of the year progressed.  
 
“It’s okay.” He never said a bad word about me after that. There was a brief period of resistance when he ripped my holographic Erica’s Dragonair in half – little shit – but I got him back in line.