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Teenagers are so much fun.
Nov. 7th, 2005 01:38 amDear Allister Klingensmith (I think that's your name),
If you're the guy who was in the printmaking class at the University of Alaska Fairbanks Summer Fine Arts Camp sometime in the late '90s, I was that introverted girl who you ticked off. It wasn't anything special, it was just that you were an extreme extrovert, I was an extreme introvert, and you knew you were too damn cute and used that as leverage to be yourself. That was enough. You irritated me no end, especially while I was trying to concentrate.
I admit that when I was sweeping the floor that evening and you were sort of in my way, I did bang the broom into your heels on purpose. Either you had finished your share of cleanup and were just hanging out, or you had halfheartedly made a token gesture of cleaning up, but you were leaning over the huge table talking far too loudly to someone, leaning on your forearms, with your feet suspended about an inch or two above the floor. Your feet were too tempting a target to pass up, and I could always claim it was an accident while I was trying to get the floor as clean as it could get. Under the table was messy, don't you know. According to the plan, the broom would have bumped your feet, I would have snapped out, "Sor-ry!" (and not actually been sorry at all), and finished my cleanup.
I was as surprised as anyone when that gentle nudge with the broom sent you crashing seat-first into the floor. Your position braced against the table was the fulcrum, and I had just applied pressure to an end of your body's lever. You went down, and you went down hard. The entire class, teacher included, found it hilarious. I can't remember if you took it in stride or if you sulked about it, but everybody knew you'd been knocked entirely over.
That was bad enough by itself. The fact that I drew up the incident in cartoon form afterward, captioned "Allister is swept off his feet", was just cruel. (Funny, but cruel.) Making a collage print of it in printing class? Salt. And vinegar.
I'm not entirely sorry for the sweeping. I doubt you would have believed me then if I'd told you the side effects were unintentional. I'm not really sorry for laughing, because a relatively painless pratfall is a thing of classic comedy, especially when it's unexpected. I do regret any pain I may have caused you by it. If you read this, if you remember it, if I spelled your name right -- I am sorry about that.
In Google we trust,
Joan
If you're the guy who was in the printmaking class at the University of Alaska Fairbanks Summer Fine Arts Camp sometime in the late '90s, I was that introverted girl who you ticked off. It wasn't anything special, it was just that you were an extreme extrovert, I was an extreme introvert, and you knew you were too damn cute and used that as leverage to be yourself. That was enough. You irritated me no end, especially while I was trying to concentrate.
I admit that when I was sweeping the floor that evening and you were sort of in my way, I did bang the broom into your heels on purpose. Either you had finished your share of cleanup and were just hanging out, or you had halfheartedly made a token gesture of cleaning up, but you were leaning over the huge table talking far too loudly to someone, leaning on your forearms, with your feet suspended about an inch or two above the floor. Your feet were too tempting a target to pass up, and I could always claim it was an accident while I was trying to get the floor as clean as it could get. Under the table was messy, don't you know. According to the plan, the broom would have bumped your feet, I would have snapped out, "Sor-ry!" (and not actually been sorry at all), and finished my cleanup.
I was as surprised as anyone when that gentle nudge with the broom sent you crashing seat-first into the floor. Your position braced against the table was the fulcrum, and I had just applied pressure to an end of your body's lever. You went down, and you went down hard. The entire class, teacher included, found it hilarious. I can't remember if you took it in stride or if you sulked about it, but everybody knew you'd been knocked entirely over.
That was bad enough by itself. The fact that I drew up the incident in cartoon form afterward, captioned "Allister is swept off his feet", was just cruel. (Funny, but cruel.) Making a collage print of it in printing class? Salt. And vinegar.
I'm not entirely sorry for the sweeping. I doubt you would have believed me then if I'd told you the side effects were unintentional. I'm not really sorry for laughing, because a relatively painless pratfall is a thing of classic comedy, especially when it's unexpected. I do regret any pain I may have caused you by it. If you read this, if you remember it, if I spelled your name right -- I am sorry about that.
In Google we trust,
Joan
