Becoming The Bull
Our school yearbooks in Australia differ greatly from the yearbooks students receive in countries like Canada and America (at least, from what I’ve heard from people who attend school there). I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing – I just insist it’s special.
In Australia we get one yearbook at the very end of high school (sometimes primary school). The yearbook is full of mementos from only our year group. Throughout our high school years, we’re stuck with the same people, sometimes in the same classes, but generally in the same group. As we progressed through high school, we collected quotes, took more pictures, and wrote more things that would go into the yearbook, which we would receive on the day we signed out of school.
Ours was cheap, mind you – our school was extremely poor so the whole thing was pretty much hand-made and photocopied. 😰
I personally believe that high school was the best time of my life, so far. It was at least relatively better than primary school or the days when I was younger. I can barely remember anything from my “childhood”. Who really can remember so much? 😧
It’s not like I can remember a good experience – they were all terrible. I’ll bring you through one.
It wasn’t nice to label him as such – but the school jerk, in years 5-6 when I went to a different school – was actually someone who I knew when I was much younger. Blast from the past! Right, not so cheesy. The pompous child I knew when I was four years old was the same when I was ten. Six years clearly doesn’t make much of a difference – not outside puberty, anyway. Let’s call this guy Nate.
I met Nate at preschool, when we were both about three years old, and my mum was good friends with his mum. We had just moved into the neighbourhood so I suppose my mum was happy to already find a friend. My mum was a little… uncomfortable… with Nate’s mum’s openness, though.
You wouldn’t believe it – Nate needed to “go potty” (as “TMI” as this sounds) – and his mum let him do it right there, right in the openness of their lounge room. Oh hellyeah, the fuck I was there with my mum and we were visiting, and he was sitting on his portable plastic potty as I played with the funny play dollhouse he had.
‘What in the actual fuck’ – as they question, with no expected answer.
In 1993, Nate and I got along like regular children.
In 2001, we were rivals/enemies. We were constantly trying to see who could run faster, who was smarter, who could solve puzzles faster, who was taller (I failed that one), who had more friends… I think in the end he got sick of it, because he hit me on the head with a dictionary when he was in a rage.
Perhaps – and I regret this just a little bit for not doing so – that would have been a good time to say, “and who was the one who went potty in the middle of their house in front of a girl?”
Because we all know… bortaS bIr jablu’DI’ reH QaQqu’ nay’1.