Third grade, like all other grades, is a horrible year. The pressure begins to ramp up, you’re homework gets due dates, drama, etc.
I did lots of stupid things in third grade, such as color my teeth blue with a ballpoint pen; color my entire hand blue with a ballpoint pen; lock myself in my room for hours at a time without food, water, or bathroom breaks to watch ICarly; contract the stomach flu; throw up in the hallway and walk into a random classroom with vomit all over my hands and face; throw up in the hallway again; write a short story about vampires; etc. The list could go on for ages.
But today we’re going to talk about a particular story that took place in third grade.
Like every other mostly sane person, I am in an ongoing war with mosquitos. Mosquitos are horrible (they’re important to the ecosystem but horrible to people). They are horrible and don’t you dare disagree. They suck your blood like greedy vampires and leave itching bumps that swell to the size of plastic Easter eggs.
Mosquitos, on the other hand, love me. They leave everyone else alone and make a feast of me.
Everyone always tells you never to scratch mosquito bites, but I’ve never been one to listen to everyone. But in this case, at least, I should have.
I got a mosquito bite on my left forearm and it swelled to a respectable size. And I itched it. I itched it until it bled.
(Mosquitos are one of the reasons that I despise spring.)
But, thanks to magic and a Band-Aid, the bloody wound eventually scabbed over.
(This post’s about to get somewhat gross. Squeamish readers, click off now.)
Another activity that I participated in as a naive child was the picking of scabs. *Shudders* Don’t worry, dear readers, I don’t do this anymore.
The scab was about a half-inch long (“How do I know this?” you ask. I still have a scar) and it covered a half-inch long wound. (I’m going to call it a wound. It makes the story more dramatic.)
During class, I did the inevitable and picked off the scab.
But, of course, it started bleeding profusely. (What else did I expect?)
So here I am, blood gushing from an open wound, my right hand clapped over it to try and stanch the flow, and my teacher, under the premise that nothing was wrong, merrily teaching away.
Thankfully, a few minutes later, she gave us time to work. I went up to ask the teacher for a Band-Aid, but there was another girl in front of me. I waited patiently behind her, still bleeding.
She needed a Band-Aid as well. For her papercut.
The nightmare then began.
Me: Uh, I need a Band-Aid, too.
Teacher: I’m sorry. We’re out of Band-Aids. Is it an emergency?
Girl: That’s fine. I don’t really need one.
Me: … Yeah. I guess it can wait.
It could not wait. It definitely could not wait.
Soon afterward, the teacher began to teach again. (It is her job, after all.)
And I’m still sitting there. Bleeding profusely.
I lifted my right hand to check if it had stopped bleeding. Nope. And my right hand was coated with blood.
At that point, a classmate, let’s call him Earl Omega, looked right at me. I held eye contact and glared at him with the full force of the laser-firing armada located behind my eyeballs.
I can’t remember what happened afterward because third grade was so long ago.
And now we’ll never know if Little Arachnid ever got that Band-Aid or not.