So the other night, Chrissy and I take my sister out for a belated birthday burger and beer. Lavish spenders that we are, we ask along her BFF since she was a kid, Tricia. This always proves to be a good time, as we all get boozed up and joke about the stupid things we all did as kids. Being the oldest, I actually tend to be the one that’s the butt of most of the jokes. You see, I was quite the loser when I was younger, problem was; I didn’t know it then.

Oh, I always got good grades in school, never really got into any sort of mischief. I never had to have a teacher or principle drag my parents into school for loudly voicing my opinions on what an asshole Christopher Columbus was, or objecting rudely to a teachers insistence that I refrain from inappropriately touching little Debbie Stillman. Nope, none of those things ever happened. My life was ridiculously average and dull. My wardrobe and hairstyles were far below average. I played Strat-o-Matic baseball. Alone.There were a few friends, but it wasn’t until my senior year in high school that I started to become a little more social, and actually started making more friends, going to parties, and slowly developing into the charming bundle of charisma most people now know me to be.My sister, bless her soul, suddenly decides to add a few little nuggets to the conversation. We all get to take a fun journey through my historically poor fashion sense. Izod shirts, red pants, very short shorts, look…it was the style at the time. Somehow too, she clearly recalls my junior high school yearbook, and the fact that I didn’t have an awful lot of signatures in the book. I’m guessing it’s still done nowadays (holy shit – I actually used the word nowadays in a sentence – I’m really getting fucking old) whereas students in high school and middle school get all their friends and teachers to autograph their yearbook. Sort of a badge of honor at the time, like who has the most friends on facebook these days. Ya see, I was also somewhat of an introvert back then too – so I only had enough balls to ask a handful of people to sign my yearbook. Hence a very low turnout of great lines like “Have a cool summer!” and “Never forget when Duggan farted in class!” Ah yes, a veritable potpourri of literary bile.But I digress. The thing that she remembered, was that although the yearbook was quite sparse in the autograph arena, I did somehow manage to get the school janitorto sign my book. Don’t believe me? Have a look for yourself…

Have a clean summer. Brief, topical and to the point. Good advice from our custodial engineer who obviously expressed his concern for a young student to remember to wipe his ass daily and try not to drag too much mud into the house.

This she remembers. I was such a loser, that I couldn’t get any of the cute girls in my class to give me their autograph signed with a whimsical heart, happy face, star or pentagram. Nope – but I got ol’ Dilbert Pickles to wish me well.

Problem is, Dilbert really never did sign my yearbook, I was so pathetic that I actually wrote it in myself. I was going to make it look like Iona Frisbee one of the cafeteria ladies signed my book, but I was worried that I was incapable of incorporating those fancy swirlies and flourishes that often mark a woman’s handwriting.

Can’t tell which is worse, the fact that my sister has spent the last thirty years giggling to herself over the fact that I had so few friends when I was in middle school that I had to get the janitor to sign the book so as to have one less blank page, or that I was so miserably pathetic that I scribbled in some odd custodian wisdom in my own yearbook.

I hastily paid for the cheeseburgers and drove home in search of any old photos featuring me in my knee high tube socks and cut off jean shorts. A quick toss onto the fire lest they ever see the light of day again. I’ll hold onto the yearbook though…those cafeteria ladies were hot!