Senseless Moments: Lee Whitfield

I clenched my fists on the playground of Woodbine Baptist Church. I think I was watching Dallas Star, Lee Whitfield, and Lee's girlfriend (I think her name was Krystal, spelled like the tasty burgerette) joke around and be fourth grade cool. I hated Lee's gold necklace, Dallas' rebellious mullet, and Krystal's beautiful freckles, bespeckling her body like so many sesame seeds on a warm bun. Whenever I attempted friendliness, my affections were spurned. What had I to bring to the table? What could I add to Lee and Dallas's encylcopedic knowledge of racist jokes? I clenched my fists and simmered with inadequacy. I boiled, and the expression this finally found was in running towards the nearest window of the church building with my fist outstretched in front of me, shattering the glass. I looked down at my hand, at all the blood, and started wailing (it was somewhere between screaming as if my head were on fire and boo-hooing over a dead pet). I was ushered inside by a calm adult, who calmed me, but my mother soon got involved and her overreaction prompted my overreaction, which then reinvigorated her overreaction, resulting in an escalating, cyclical mutual craziness. I guess we composed ourselves and I went and got my first stitches ever, the scars still white today on my ring finger and wrist. After I got the stitches taken out, we had dinner at Shoney's to celebrate. At the time, the reason I gave for why I did it was that Lee Whitfield had dared me to. I don't think he did, but I'm not sure. I think my motive was either A. that I thought that breaking the window would be a really dramatic, cool gesture that might win me an appreciative audience, allowing me to vent my anger and constructively address the source of that anger (my uncoolness/ friendlessness) or B. I went crazy for a few minutes.