Muffin

“Muffin! Muffin!” I squealed in a prepubescent snicker so nasty, so angry, so viciously that I sounded like Earthquake, the worst bad guy from the World Wrestling Federation’s most recent Pay Per View special, Summerslam 1990. All of the boys on my side of the lunch table were laughing wildly, and I’d never been on this side of the table. I’d never been allowed at the table; since I was known at Folsom Junior High School mostly for being a chunky, smelly boy, who came to school without brushing my teeth and running the opposite direction of baseballs, footballs, tennis balls, dodge balls, even cotton balls.