This paper is surging with the egocentricity of a toddler.  Additionally, since it was a Freshman English Essay, it has long paragraphs.

 

"Stink'n Pee Baby"

     My best buddy, Norman, and I watched the other first grade boys march by like a column of little soldiers.  They were returning from our dusty school yard, so we were looking for wet dirty crotches.  If they slipped by our inspection, someone else would always point them out, snickering.  Only later, I would learn how those boys must have been feeling.  In the second grade when I was ridiculed for wetting my drawers, I experienced this humiliation.
      I thought I had a firm hand on my bladder control, but I was not prepared for when I was overpowered with laughter.  In every school-related jocularity that I could remember, Norman and I were the instigators; inseparable, we fed off each other's antics.  And, "Music Time," as our teacher, Mrs. Martin, called it, provided the best camouflage for our vocalized shenanigans.  We kept in reserve our best barnyard noises for these periods.  For the sake of boys everywhere, it was our sacred duty to put music-time in its proper perspective.  Norman always had the greater slew of noises because he was a farm-boy.  During one of these sing-along periods, Norman, behind me, hid under his desk and squealed like a whole brood of scampering piglets.  I knew Norman was getting by with his bold shrieking and I was laughing hysterically.  Eventually, Mrs. Martin and everyone else looked at me as the source of the disorder, and I laughed like a lunatic.  My hysteria was escalating.  It became uncontrollable, as did my bladder.
      A moist warmth filled my pants as Norman rocketed up from the floor shouting, "You, Stink'n Pee Baby," and I was intensely humiliated.  I could not believe it; I had been at the highest point of boisterous fun and now Norman was court-martialing me from my position as his fellow class-clown and at the same time placing me before a firing squad of eyeballs all shouting, "Pee Baby!"  Irrefutably!  Indisputable!   Even without our playground's earthy betrayal, I was dirt!  Misunderstood and abandoned, I was the object for everyone's scorn.  I knew this situation could never have happened before in the whole history of the second grade.  I felt so alone and isolated.  My only companions were the squad of pulsating eyeballs pressuring in upon me.  From every side of our spacious classroom, their aim came shoving me into a tighter and tighter claustrophobic space.  I sat crouched in my desk with my despicable predicament.  I thought that if I could only shut my eyes and remain motionless, I would disappear.  However, I could not stop my desperate search through the pair of eyeballs, timidly hoping one of them would see my innocence.  A blitzkrieg of prayers raced through my head.  Couldn't someone take pity and tell me how to end my misery?  Of course, the blaring eyeballs had no answers; they could only intensify my feelings of shame and impending doom.
     Now it would seem, this experience should change my life.  However, if I said it did, whom would I be kidding?  Of coarse when I look back--as an adult--I place my wet crotch experience alongside my compassion for others, but back then the next day was just like any other.  Hog-wild, foaming-at-the-mouth hysteria pretty much describes my elementary school days.  If anything was good for a laugh, you'd better bet, it was going to be used.  And, when were the feelings of  "stupid cry babies" considered?  Never, well maybe once.