If you're wondering how Armsweat came about, I'll tell you. Whether you like it or not.

It was 7th grade. A group of us chicks were hanging around the lunch table at Bayshore Middle School, talking and eating smelly tuna fish sandwiches. Someone said, "I hate my last name, it sounds like Snausages."

Another girl piped up, "Yeah me too. Everyone always says Marshmallow."

Just to be cool, I wanted to get in on the conversation. But the truth was, no one made fun of my last name, except to say it with an overexaggerated lisp to mock the way I spoke with braces: they would call me Lisha Arnshesh. Har-dee-fucking-har.

Still, that wasn't as witty as Snausages or Marshmallow. I wanted a "sounds-like" word that could be made out of my name too. Why? (sigh) I really don't know. I think I had some sort of vitamin deficiency.

So I pipe up with the first thing that comes to mind. I lie. I say, "They call me Armsweat."

Silence. Then, giggles.

A few days later, I get picked last for kickball (again). I sit on the bench awaiting my turn up to punt the ball at some pimply kids. I get up there, get into kicking position, and one of the boys yells out: "Hey everyone, MOVE IN. Armsweat's up."

Whaa--? I had only said that amongst girls. How'd the boys find out? As the kids all lumbered in sarcastically, moving closer to the home plate because of my rep as a lousy kicker, I got angry. There be traitors in them mists. I narrowed my eyes, and when the ball came chugging across the dirt towards me, I swung my leg out hard. Only to miss completely, and have my foot land right behind the ball as it rolled to the catcher, so I looked like a spasmatic Clydesdale horse stomping my foot. Never mind. I had other things on my mind than winning a dumb kickball game. I grumbled to myself the whole way back to the locker room, where I shoved my clothes into a dirty old Benetton sack and trudged to class, picking at the rubber bands on my braces and sucking on apple Jolly Ranchers.

I never discovered the traitor in this case. Much like a dorky, female version of Richard Kimble, I am on a quest to find the perpetrator. One day I'll find her. And I'll make fun of her supremo-retarded married name. Der! This ain't over, bee-otch! Grrrr!!!

The point is: I made up my own nickname that the kids tortured me with later. It takes a very special breed of doofus to pull this off with this sort of success.

I'm proud of it. Although I'll still take out that traitor if I ever find her. Ass to the wall, ladies; ass to the wall.