Why You Should Never, Ever be Nice to Strangers, and Why Eight-Year-Olds are the Worst™

So I was on my way home from getting lunch. I was crossing one of the main streets in Antigua, which is two roads, moving in opposite directions, divided in the middle by a stretch of sidewalk dotted with small gardens surrounding trees and bordered by short fences. It’s a cute space.

I was waiting to cross the second road when I saw a couple approaching to my right. Like any considerate person would, I took a step back.

Then I promptly tripped backwards on one of those tiny-garden fences, mauling my forearm on the tree as I fell. Like a turtle flipped on its back, I sat frozen for a horrifyingly embarrassing moment. Then the woman came over to try and help me, which was sweet. Except she was half a foot shorter and maybe fifty pounds lighter than I am, and instead of helping me up she restrained one of my arms, and I had to maneuver myself up with just one hand.

It sucked.

So I went back to the hostel, extremely happy that I had the foresight to bring Band-Aids and Neosporin with me on this trip (I am nothing if not predictable). It was after I had washed my messed-up arm and smeared Neosporin on it that I realized I had about an hour until I was going to be in a room of thirty curious eight year olds who didn’t regularly wash their hands.

One of my friends called me ‘dramatic’ for covering the entire bottom side of my forearm in Band-aids. I call it ‘understanding the minds of eight year olds.’

Lo and behold, within five minutes of being in class, three kids patted my arm and demanded to know what was wrong with me. By the end of the afternoon session, eight of them had poked my very sore arm.

By this morning my cuts were scabbed over, so I felt a little bit better about going into school without covering my entire arm. Ten minutes in, four of them had grabbed the giant and obvious cut on my arm.

These are the monsters (and also my first photo not stolen from Google!!)

I simply cannot understand the thought process. If I say, “yeah I fell and cut open my arm and now it hurts,” why would you, a grubby little eight year old whom I would die for, grab it? That’s just foolish.

Anyway, moral of the story is that if you’re nice to people and try to get out of the way, you’ll get hurt and then tortured further by children.

Peace out! My arm hurts,

Jules

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