It was the last day of the school year; third grade, I believe. I sat at my desk chewing the eraser off of my No. 2 pencil in anticipation of the two months of freedom, which lay ahead. I obsessively cleaned my over-sized tortoise shell glasses with the bottom of my t-shirt. The clock ticked… slowly. Finally, the bell rang, and FLASH, I was off. I sprinted down the hallway exuberantly. The strobe LED lights from my LA Gears reflected off the waxed linoleum floor, until they hit the black tar pavement of my elementary school’s playground.
Before I could go home for a summer of splashing around in the town pool and watching marathons of The Adventures of Pete and Pete, all day, on Nickelodeon; I would hang around the playground for the school carnival. It was an annual tradition on the final day of the year. I would eat cotton candy. I would ride the scrambler until I threw up. I would play tilted carnival games, with dreams of shoving a giant stuffed neon animal into my mom’s station wagon in my head.