July 17, 2020:

For a time I was bullied every morning by an older boy who upon arrival would kick me in the shin exactly once. It was his little morning ritual, like brushing his teeth or tying his shoe laces before leaving the house.

Even in his sixth grade picture you can clearly see what a cunt he was. Where in this instance "cunt" is Brit colloquial for "smirking smugass prick". I met that same kid later in high school where he was still a smirking smugass prick. People don't change, they just become more like themselves.

In my photo you can see my stifflipped unhappiness. I'm determined to grit things out. To the extent, that is, I'm there at all.

I learned to finesse the older cunt by lingering at the pinball arcade on Garnet Street. I'd wait until the last possible moment before walking through the classroom door. So that he'd not be alone with me to work his peculiar morning mojo.

I kinda wish I'd clocked him, as I'd done previously with bullies and would do again. In hindsight I wonder why I didn't. I think, it's because nothing at that school was worth engaging with. All things considered it was better to be absent. The single time I believe I was fully present was when I split a different bully's nose open with the elbow of the plaster cast intended to hold my broken right arm in place. He was not bullying me, he was bullying my friend's little brother, and that's out of bounds.