Misery Pigeon

Please Stop Hitting Me With Rocks

Mr. Blabs, the Biology teacher, came into my classroom and asked me if I knew anything about Geology.

“Rocks,” he clarified before I could respond.

I said, “a bit” though the only thing I could think about rocks was a scene from Galaxy Quest where the little aliens are chanting, “ROCK! ROCK! ROCK!” over and over.

“There was an article today in Scientific American about rocks on Mars. Well, you see—” he began.

He pulled a rock from his pocket, walked over to where I sat behind my desk, pulled back his arm, and WHACKED me in the ear with it.

He does this a lot.

My coworkers told me I should tell him I’m busy, or that I have work, or that I need space, but I maintain that I shouldn’t have to tell another adult not to hit people with rocks.

As he whacked, and whacked, and whacked, I sat and nodded along with the rhythm, waiting for him to get tired.

When he first started doing this, I tried to comment on the size, shape, or roughness of the rock, foolishly thinking that might be what he wanted. But, no, I’ve now realized, he just likes to hit people with rocks.

So, I’ve developed a defense mechanism that kicks in whenever he starts. My brain just repeats, over and over, its last thought I’d had so that, when he gets tired, I can pick right back up where I left off. I did not miss the irony of today’s choice in topic nor of the last thought I’d had as he pounded away.

“ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK! ROCK!”

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