Tuesday, May 04, 2004

11:30 a.m.
I found myself walking towards my locker through the school foyer when I saw Dior Boy heading my way. He makes a face. Yes, that face. You know, that "Hey, I'm part of the KISS army" face.

That gossip fiend has been doing this for awhile now. Making odd barking noises and grimaces when I walk by, knowing that I don't like him; that I can no longer be cordial. Until recently, my automatic response was flipping him the bird and smirking, depending on the situation, bien sur.

But not today. No ma'am. He walked towards me, snarked (word?) and I put my arm around his shoulder, rubbing his neck, and proceeded to walk in his direction. I greeted him by name and he reacted giggling like a school girl.

"So why do you like getting negative attention from me?" I asked him.

He laughed nervously.


"Why do you enjoy getting negative attention from me?" I repeated.

"I don't know," he replied, blushing (though might be confused with fear.)

By this time, we had reached the vending machine. I put both my hands on his shoulders and pinned him against the wall.

"Just apologize *insert name* We can go back to you not acknowledging my existence. Just apologize."

He looked at me, still flashing that "I might shit my pants" smile.

"Well?" I pushed on.

"I'm sorry," he said. The words spilled from his mouth like a deflating balloon as he swung both hands in front of him with his palms facing up in a dramatic apologetic gesture.

I slapped his left hand and exclaimed, "Thank you!" and walked away.

Moral of the story: No man's pride exceeds my own.

But more importantly: Making a man admit he was wrong? Priceless.

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