Being A Nerd...
...I used to hate, hate, hate P.E. Yes, it's not work, but consider the following: you had to wear those stupid fucking shorts which your bollocks popped out of if you sat cross legged, run in the snow and shower with other boys who called you gay. That's as bad if not worse than sitting at a desk all day typing.

So, I used to beg my mum to make stuff up to get me out of it. She played along for a bit (I'm an only child and so used to get spoiled), but eventually grew a spine and refused my whinging requests for fake notes.

So I decided I needed a convincing reason to get out of things. I decided it would be a really good idea to throw myself down the stairs. This is made pathetic by the fact that we had a dog-leg staircase, so it would in fact be a mere 5 stairs that I would be throwing myself down.

Piece of cake, I thought, I can roll round the corner and down the rest of them. No, then again, that seems a bit suspicious. I stood on those stairs for a good 15 minutes working out the logistics of where I would end up if I fell different ways.

It was no good. I couldn't bring myself to do it, just in case I actually broke anything. So instead, I decided to fake the event. Standing on step #1, I ran very fast and heavily down the stairs, punching the walls as I went down so as to make it sound authentic. Then I laid down halfway down the stiars and crumpled myself up, wailing in "pain".

Nothing happened. No stirring from the parents' bedroom - not one sound. I cried out a couple of times; still nothing.

In the end, I got back up, crying (I'm a master of fake crying to this date) and walk/hobbled into the bedroom. "Mum! I fell down the stairs!"

"Did you? I didn't hear anything."

The sob story worked, she wrote me a note - but the whole stair-fall charade was a fucking waste of time. Bah!
( Squeaky Shoes *riao riao*, Tue 13 Jun 2006, 13:20, Reply)