Ode to a younger ben

When I was in fifth grade, I was a spaz.  Looking back on that year I remember thinking "since every girl is the devil and my yearbook is clearly my property, it is only logical that every girl in my class receive mustaches of varying severity.  Even now, one may flip through my Big A Elementary yearbook and view this pristine relic of my misplaced aggression.  I now think back on that time and realize that, perhaps I was the one deserving a poorly drawn fumanchu and not my fellow feminine classmate.  Honestly, there was only one girl in that group that I had any case at all against, and it was that I was once slapped on the arm for no apparent reason.  Of course she was a girl, and it didn't hurt that bad, but it was the principle of the thing.  At the time that slap may as well have been a brick to the forehead.

I also had some funny ticks back then as well.  I'm not saying that I looked like I rode the short bus, but given a lineup of my peers it wouldn't have been a stretch of the imagination.  It is a surprise that I resemble anything I do now.  On many occasion I was prone to a fit of ambidextrous arm flailing, producing a series of loud snapping noises that pierced the air with the alacrity of an overly exited puppy.  The effect was twofold.  I held within my grasp the ability to simultaneously entertain and also to grate the nerves of anyone unfortunate enough to be in the same room.  The real reason I did it, however, was that I liked the way it sounded.  Ah, to be young again.