Why I Committed Suicide by sam paul Page A

when the time came nobody bothered to tell me about the wonders and immediate URGENCY of wearing deodorant and that was really damn awkward.
    In the Fourth grade I moved to another school in another part of the Dallas area, which might as well have been on the other side of the moon. Still to this day I can’t visualize myself in this part of the country and therefore have to ask a lot of gas station people for directions. Half of them gawk that I’m a MAN asking for directions in stubborn testosterone stereotype Texas where “real men” apparently don’t ask for directions; the other half can’t speak English and look at me with a blank look of ignorance that can only say “I hear you jibba-jabbering, but I walk across the street to my job at this gas station. I’m from butt-fuck Egypt and I can’t even give you directions to the freaking bathroom.” My other option factors in the anomaly that there is usually some sort of gas-guzzling minivan-driving soccer mom getting a fill-up outside most gas stations. A slightly overweight (but she’s dieting) big-haired, born-and-raised-in-this-10-square-mile-area (say that part really fast) of the city, who would love to give directions to me because she would be happy to talk to anyone that doesn’t speak in baby talk or talk down to her like her husband does and he works ALL the time anyway so she suspects he might be having an affair because all the kids she’s had, to make him not attracted to her plus she never even pictured having to stay in Texas, much less be driving a minivan full of brats that keep popping out of her, so she would love to talk to anyone who’s male and wants her opinion because her husband doesn’t pay attention or compliment her anymore.
    So I usually just bite the bullet, drive around lost and find my way to wherever I’m going eventually.
    Anyway, it was in the fourth grade when I was introduced to the fierce competition that always goes along with, and is encouraged heavily in, Texas sports. I probably thought at first that the extended summer had something to do with the drive for constant abusive outside activity to these slow talking folks, but after experiencing the summer seasons’ heated oppression it had to be something more primal that drove the natives, some sort of blood lust that would motivate them to worship high school football and fierce competition in general.
    My favorite sport of choice in the fourth grade came from the enraptured feeling of pleasure I got playing kickball. Kickball: all the rules and physics of baseball without the legal liabilities of children hurtling small rock-hard objects at each other. I’ve always been moderately swift, moderately coordinated and uncharacteristically strong for a wiry white fella, so sports like baseball, volleyball, track and especially kickball were my bitches. In fourth grade Physical Education class Mrs. Keys would make us play kickball ALL the time. I became a kickball expert and knew how to exploit the weaknesses of my classmates to excel as much as anyone truly can in the pre-baseball sport.
    One of Mrs. Keys’ children died when I was in the fifth grade. He was riding in the back of a pick-up truck and bounced out. I remember thinking that was a really terrible thing at the time and I remember my friend James telling my mother that at least Mrs. Keys had other children so it wasn’t a total loss. James with his amped up hyper-intelligence was always very pragmatic and callous because he was raised in a large Catholic family.
    Anyway, we had a substitute for a while that led the P.E. class and she knew absolutely nothing about physical education of any sort. I’m sure it isn’t particularly hard, you either give the kids free reign or organize them into teams and let them beat the energy out of each other. This substitute had us playing kickball one time and when it was my turn I booted the ball way off into the distance, determined to go for the homerun. My