In the seventh grade I was promoted by my peers from president of the class geek-nerd-brainiac society to, well, if not fully cool, then at least on the way. I had discovered two sports I excelled in — golf and baseball — and the girls had discovered that I was one of the best, if not the best, dancer in the class. My classmates began overlooking the fact that I was a straight-A student, always sported a few pimples and wore thick glasses.
My sudden popularity went immediately to my head. Seeing an opening, I promptly assigned myself to the role of class comedian. Up until then, only my few friends (nerds, all) knew that I possessed a quick wit. I was determined to change that, and change it I did. In no time, a very sick co-dependent relationship developed between my fellow students and me. They depended on me for jokes, and I depended on them for laughter. It goes without saying that the more they laughed, the more I joked.