21 February 1998
9 years old.
I got into some type of altercation with a boy who lived down the street about three blocks. We had been at his house playing tetherball and something happened that I felt was unjust. I said something about it to him in my wimpy, whiny way of dealing with conflict that must have pissed him off. He verbally attacked me while I just stood there, too mad and embarrassed to say anything in my defense, until I finally fled home.
When I got there, I was too steamed to just accept defeat and go inside. However, I was too insecure to wage a formal battle against this boy. Then a plan hatched inside my evil little head. I went into the kitchen and grabbed a Tupperware cup, one of the short plastic ones that came in a variety of primary colors. This one was red. I went back into the garage and filled the cup with water from our little stationary tub. I was trying to be secretive about this whole operation, so I was startled when my dad appeared in the garage to bundle some newspapers for recycling. Not wanting to risk an explanation, I hurried off down the driveway with my six-ounce Tupperware cup full of water, hell-bent on revenge.
I had nearly reached the boy's driveway when I noticed that about a third of the water had sloshed out of the cup during my trot down the street. If my plan had been to throw the water in his face, it wasn't going to be a very harsh punishment at this point. I stopped near his mailbox, pondered for a few minutes, then turned and headed for home, sipping the remaining water and hating my inability to deal with conflict in a satisfying way.