it’s a mitzvah!

Basically, regrettable moments can be divided up into three distinct categories.

There are those that are accidental, slips of the tongue. The first time I met my good friend Matt, it was the first day of our last year of high school. We’d both just transferred, and I took his being tattooed as an excuse to talk to him. We got to discussing comedians, and I mentioned Bill Hicks, rattling off an annoying amount of his routines in a poor Texan accent. Matt asked if he’d done anything lately, leading to this exchange:

- Nah, he died from pancreatic cancer a bunch of years ago.
- Ouch. That’s a rough way to go.
- So I hear! It took him in just a couple months or so. There’s supposedly a zero per cent survival rate or something insane like that.
- Yeah, I know. My dad died from it when I was 12.

Drowning myself in the lake next to the school seemed like a pretty good idea, but we managed to get past it. I guess it could have been worse, but luckily I forgot my Kancer is Kooky! flashcards at home that day.

Then there are those times when you’re doing something you know you’re going to regret, but you do it anyway. In this regard, spite; jealousy; anger; drunkenness; everybody-else-was-doing-it; and being a spineless dipshit are all acceptable reasons. The last one was always my personal favorite, hence the existence of what I can only assume are photo albums full of pictures of me wearing poorly done make-up (as if it would matter if it had been nicely done), all manner of ridiculous clothing (miniskirts? Check! Skin-tight, size-too-small dance unitards? Check!), and an assortment of grimaces that are worth thousands of tear-soaked words.

Sometimes, though, you’re just a passenger when the universe decides it’s time to inflict some hilarious emotional scars. Case in point: I worked at a day camp in the west end of Toronto the summer I turned 15. Though it wasn’t advertised as such, the camp happened to host a disproportionate number of young children with developmental disabilities across all age groups; I had the good fortune of being saddled with the four-to-six-year-olds, a solid five per cent of whom had some sort of condition. Luckily (I guess), kids in that age range are about as likely to fall down/wet themselves/wet each other/vomit regardless of mental development.

Among the special needs kids was a five-year-old boy named Julian, who was afflicted with what was explained to me as some sort of hyper-autism, and what I’ve since deduced to be microcephaly or something similar. He didn’t really speak, was extremely hyperactive, and was purchased by P. T. Barnum in the late 1800s. At the time, I had a number of facial piercings, which, shockingly, caught the attention of many of the kids — Julian among them.

One-on-one time with the special needs kids was delegated mostly at random, and one afternoon I ended up baby-sitting Julian in one corner of the room while the rest of the kids and counsellors occupied themselves on the other side. I tried in vain to get him to do a puzzle, but all he seemed interested in was pawing at my face. I was flattered, don’t get me wrong, but God knows where those hands had been. (Remembering my girlfriend at the time, I guess I was less than consistent in gauging my response to the relative filthiness of those I let touch me.) Then he started sticking out his tongue at me. OK, sure. He sees all my other piercings, and wants to see if I have anything in my mouth. Fair enough. So I stuck my tongue out.

I don’t really know what happened next. It was like a little person had been shot out of a cannon, directly at my face and midsection. Julian and I were in close quarters, and considering the speed with which he sprung into action, I don’t think there was anything I could have done to prevent it. I mean, if anything happened. And, really, unequivocally, I can’t say that anything did.

That said, I’m pretty sure Julian shot his hands over my eyes and shoved his tongue in my mouth.

Sometimes, you just find yourself in a regrettable situation, by no real fault of your own.

So I threw him off me. Gagged a little bit. He sat there, glazed over for a second, and then went on with whatever other dirty, sinful business he had planned.

Meanwhile, I found myself in the unenviable position of hoping that none of the other counsellors, campers, or my supervisors had just seen me making out with some little retarded boy.

And the worst part of it all? He was a fucking lousy kisser.