If you squint your eyes just enough you should be able to see both the backs of your eyelids and the haze of your eyelashes. You should see a blurred view of the world, and when the world views you, you'll look pretty stupid, squinting your eyes like that. But nevertheless you keep squinting. You keep squinting because I told you you looked stupid when you did it.
Obviously I didn't really think you looked stupid. But now you really do. You can stop. Seriously? How long do you think you can squint for? Of course, you squinted for the rest of the day. You looked through your blurry eyes and half of your view the whole day long. You squinted your eyes while Ms. Toth told you to sit up straight. You squinted your eyes when I told you you looked stupid. You squinted your eyes even when it hurt, and it brought you no joy. You squinted your eyes when everyone gathered around, and told you to stop. Why didn't you stop? You squinted your eyes all through lunchtime, recess, and all the way through gym class. You squinted the rest of that spring day in kindergarten. Why didn't you stop?
All the other kids are off the bus now, you're the last stop. And still you squint. By now you're the talk of the class. You step off the bus and stand at your bus stop. The bus drives away in its yellow windstorm, and kicks up the dust from a parched road. The bus kicks up so much dust, in fact, that you're covered head to toe in dirt. But your eyes? Your eyes are crystal clear as you shake your head and blink them twice. You remembered this time. You sly dog, you remembered this time, you think to yourself.
Sure, you did it to keep your eyes clear, but I think there's more reason than that. I think you did it to prove a point to those kindergarten classmates of yours. And by god if you didn't. Because the very next day, you were the only one who didn't squint. And then it was your turn to tell them they looked stupid.
Obviously I didn't really think you looked stupid. But now you really do. You can stop. Seriously? How long do you think you can squint for? Of course, you squinted for the rest of the day. You looked through your blurry eyes and half of your view the whole day long. You squinted your eyes while Ms. Toth told you to sit up straight. You squinted your eyes when I told you you looked stupid. You squinted your eyes even when it hurt, and it brought you no joy. You squinted your eyes when everyone gathered around, and told you to stop. Why didn't you stop? You squinted your eyes all through lunchtime, recess, and all the way through gym class. You squinted the rest of that spring day in kindergarten. Why didn't you stop?
All the other kids are off the bus now, you're the last stop. And still you squint. By now you're the talk of the class. You step off the bus and stand at your bus stop. The bus drives away in its yellow windstorm, and kicks up the dust from a parched road. The bus kicks up so much dust, in fact, that you're covered head to toe in dirt. But your eyes? Your eyes are crystal clear as you shake your head and blink them twice. You remembered this time. You sly dog, you remembered this time, you think to yourself.
Sure, you did it to keep your eyes clear, but I think there's more reason than that. I think you did it to prove a point to those kindergarten classmates of yours. And by god if you didn't. Because the very next day, you were the only one who didn't squint. And then it was your turn to tell them they looked stupid.
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