I would kill Scrappy-Doo with my bare hands if I ever had the chance.

This will come as a surprise to no one: when I was fourteen, I was a big dork. A spirited, quirky dork, but a dork all the same. My best friend Kat was a dork too, a wonderful scrawny oddball. We had strange rituals and stranger nicknames, a glossary of our own vocabulary, and a Troll collection with consituents named things like Azriel Enumclaw and Dernrit Dandy Campbell.

Nearly every Saturday night, Kat would come over to watch Twin Peaks and snack. We'd eat bread dipped in beef bouillon from a cube, because we were pigalettas, and Kat would usually sleep over. Later, we'd watch SNL to soak up chestnuts we'd repeat ad nauseum. One of our favorites (see above re: dorks) came from a sketch I can't now recall, but the phrase we adopted was "sucks donkeys."

We were among a generation that accused things of sucking as often as we breathed. It was just a word; I'd never spent half a moment considering the origin. Given the sort of fourteen-year-olds we were, I don't imagine we had any sort of image associated with this donkey-sucking - I suppose, if compelled, I might have described someone comically gnawing a hoof. I didn't have the slightest suspicion of indecency.

On holidays, my junior high school offered a service to further illuminate the friendless to the ruthless masses. The rest of us paid a dollar to sign a card for delivery to our various BFF in homeroom. The message I wrote to Kat that October 31st, 1990 was (see above again re: dork),"Happy Halloween, Kat-head. I hope it doesn't suck purple and yellow donkeys."

What savvy adult could read that message and mistake my tone as sophisticated or crass - as anything but overwhelmingly and pitifully dorky? And yet, some adult did - the savvy part is debatable. I was called into the vice principal's office that afternoon. He slammed the card I'd signed hours before on the desk between us and said, "Well? Do you have anything to say about this?"

I'd never been in that office in my life. I'd never been so much as tardy without a note. For the love of christ, my mom still packed my lunch and sometimes drew happy faces on it and I didn't mind. I looked at him, quivering and uncomprehending. He opened the card and gestured for me to read, which I did, though I knew exactly what I'd written. I said, terribly confused, "It's from Saturday Night Live," my voice raising the last syllable like I was asking him to confirm.

We stared at each other for an endless moment, and the realization dawned in sync. I'm sure our faces matched - my look of horror as I realized what my vice principal thought I'd written, and his, as he realized he'd just exposed the practice of sex with animals to a teenaged innocent. He mumbled something too quiet for me to hear - I assume something vice principled like "very well then" or "don't let it happen again" - and ushered me out of his office as fast as he could.

He never looked me in the eye again, though he rarely had the opportunity. I went back to my life of nerd purity, my love affair with "sucks donkeys" permanently extinguished (to be replaced with "in a van down by the river," or whatever we decided on next). But you can't unring a bell. Thanks to the vice principal of my junior high school, I will always know there are people who commit unspeakable acts upon farm animals. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if it were his fault I smoke so much crack.

Spring is being wishy-washy. It's bright and lovely out, but jacket weather clings to the mostly bare trees like a tragic, ill-fitting bathing suit. I want to embrace a new climate, to shed my skin or at least wear sandals. I defied the slow-blossoming season on Sunday at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. We sat on the grass in the Cherry Esplanade and pretended the cherry trees had done their work early. On the way home, we rode the carousel in Prospect Park. This was my horse, Nanny:

April is stupid and I hate it. I've just recovered from the worst stomach ailment the universe has ever known (at least the universe that is the size and shape of my own body) and I'm cranky and melancholy. Fie on April. It's for the birds, and not very nice birds either.

I have nothing more to say about April or anything else. Have a useless rhyming poem I wrote last year instead. I wrote it for Lillian, because he asked nicely.

I once met a wily young man
Who gave me a bird in a can.
I could scarce hear it sing
With an odd tinny ring
But I'm sure you could call me a fan.

I searched for a gift to return.
I offered a frog in an urn.
I said, "It just croaked."
He was pleased with my joke,
And so does this story adjourn.