A recounting of things already past up to the age of seven years

Ugh. My internet’s being stupid. It seems I can’t upload large amounts of text right now. That makes it difficult for me to post on Roleplayerguild. Argh. Anyway, I’m still taking that risk right now by at least trying to get a start on my writing assignment for tomorrow, an autobiography with a little graph-thingy about the highs and lows of your life so far.

I wish I still had time for the dramatics and stuff, but being pressed for time, I’m just going to have to brainfart this thing.

–

The following will contain a wall of text created between 11:30 pm and 2:30 am. It will be full of typos, bad sentence structure, possible grammar errors, intimate details, and general nonsense. You have been warned.

Of course, everything started in a steamy night some time in December of 1987. I was conceived sometime during that month and that could probably a high point or a low point in my life depending on what philosophy you’re buying. Nine months later, I popped out into the world. Apparently that was a low point in my life. I think I was happier in the womb. Thinking about it, why wouldn’t I be happy in the womb? Perfect temperature, nourishment on tap, no responsibilities, and my brain hasn’t yet been corrupted by human ideas of language and order. If memory serves me correctly, I remember hearing that I had my umblical cord wrapped around my neck. That probably meant I was ready to die for the cause of personal convenience.

Anyway, what followed were the pre-school years and like the natal years, I have no memories of that period but based on stories and a pre-school progress report, I seemed to have been a good kid. I was well behaved in my toddler class, I could count up to 7, I could say my ABCs, I liked singing, I could eat with a spoon and fork, and I really enjoyed picture books. And I also drooled so much, I had to go to pre-school wearing a bib. I was well on my way to be one of those annoying, goody-goody, book smart kids… who drooled a lot. I had gotten rid of the drooling problem when I was three or four, but I was still the same sickeningly sweet kid who ran to teacher whenever somebody took my toys.

Being young and part of the bourgeoise was nice. I remember happiness when I think about those times, or maybe that’s just me idealizing the past, but still those were good times. But another anecdote from the grown-ups put another black note in my past. I apparently contracted some sort of cough or allergy or something to lovebirds. I don’t know if it was lethal, but I guess they wouldn’t tell that story if it wasn’t serious.

Anyway, more on pre-school. I was four, in a prestigious pre-school, and had crushes on three different girls, one of them was my cousin. A traumatic experience was when I went up to one of those crushes for the Christmas exchange gift activity. I forgot what I gave her, but I remember what I got in return: a Barbie towel. D’oh!

Pretty soon I was off to “Big School” to have my parents waste more money on the private school system. Since my Dad was a member of the alumni, and he probably wanted me to follow in his footsteps, I was enrolled in yet another prestigious school, one that connotates ‘elite’, ‘moneyed’, and ‘Chinese’. Still, same old, same old. I was a good kid, had nice grades, got along fine with the other kids, and cried a lot. I remember crying this one time I didn’t get to finish a test. God, I was pathetic.

Things took another turn for the dramatic when I had to be hospitalized for two weeks in Grade 1. I was playing on the monkey bars, waiting for my cousin’s yaya (we were carpooling). I was making slow progress, when kids from Grade 2 started climbing up the orange metal contraption. I was in Grade 1 and generally viewed anybody from a higher grade level as gods, I got scared. I let go and (presumably) landed on my butt. What followed hours later was a high fever, pain in my right leg, and panicking parents. X-rays were taken of the leg with no signs of any fracture. Doctors looked me over with no idea what was happening. They took me to a manghihilot and only succeeded in making me scream in pain as the manghihilot did her thing. I was eventually confined to be put under observation.

It was during that period when one of the doctors suggested opening me up. And open me up they did, cutting a nice big hole in my right butt cheek. What they found was disgusting. The timing was miraculous. I remember nothing being drugged with anesthesia. It turned out that my little experience with the monkey bars messed-up something in the general area of my right butt cheek. They found pus, lots of it. An infection was eating me up inside and I could have died, or at the very least, lost my right leg if they didn’t do what they did. Well, here I am, fully capable with all my limbs intact, and all I have is a large scar on my right buttcheek to remember it all.

Things were pretty okay when I got back to school. Me missing a month of school wasn’t that bad. What was worse was me getting picked on by almost the whole class because of my name.

Ting. A short, easy-to-remember last name. It sounds Chinese. It is Chinese. It’s also a nice onomatopeoia, bringing to mind cash registers, crystal bells, ideas, anything that makes a tinkling sound. I like my name right now. I liked my name to the point of fanatic devotion when I was seven. I hated having other kids make fun of my name. It felt like a big blow to my family’s pride. It really got on my nerves. I was never really confrontational, so I just did what I do best: cry and call for teacher. It would have been nice if I could have adapted to the situation at a better rate than what I was going, but fer chrissakes I was seven. I eventually learned how to take jokes about my name in stride, even joining in the whole joke myself, but not before my whole third quarter went to hell.

Whoa, this autobiography thing is getting long. I should probably cut it off right here for now. I need my sleep. But Damn it, this thing’s due tomorrow!