Obvious Origins of A Blond and the Not-So-Obvious Origins of a Band Kid

How I became a blond

My mom gave me a recessive gene. My dad gave me a recessive gene. End of story.

Not too exciting, eh? So here's a slightly more interesting saga:

Origins of a Band Kid

It all started before 5th grade.

"Wanna play trumpet, kid? It's loud, it's shiny and it's only got three buttons."

"Sure. Why not?"

Fast forward eight years.

Still playin' that horn--now louder, and less shiny, but still three-buttoned--and one year left to go.

What happened in-between?

It's been a never-ending battle that always ends with me getting bitched at by an alcoholic leprechaun with a combover.

But I guess some good has come of it. I am now much more accustomed to:

1) heat (the weather and verbal kinds)

2) really strange people

3) an interminable sense of dread in my gut

Maybe I should've quit. But then who knows, I might be getting yelled at by Coach Arlee Connors on the sidelines of a football field. And, as scary as that little band man can be, I think I'll take him over the huge, gold-toothed beast of a coach.

At least Meador doesn't give dead cockroaches.

As for now, I'm just glad I get to miss the first week of band camp--although that will surely instigate more midget tirades--and hoping that, like everyone says, my senior year flies by (at least band-wise). Then I can join the lesbian hag as a band alumni and retire that godforsaken piece of twisted metal pipe that has caused me so much stress, affliction and wasted free time.