All of us commit incredibly stupid acts when we’re teenagers. If we’re extremely lucky, those dalliances with doltishness flirt past the attention of the authority figures in our lives, and we experience a cheap thrill that leaves no one the wiser. Failing that, you just hope that no one got hurt and that the consequences were minor and easily surmountable. I possessed enough intelligence to avoid doing anything that landed me in serious trouble, but one event stood out as a moment where I clearly failed to apply any discernible amount of intelligent forethought. At the end of 10th grade, I ran for Junior Class Treasurer.
I never thought, not even momentarily, that I might actually win the election. I existed on the fringes of the social circles and cliques in my high school, and as a result, the notion that I could win anything that remotely resembled a popularity contest—even an election for class treasurer—stuck me as utterly ridiculous. So, I treated my candidacy as a lark, and I displayed sincerity only as long as necessary to acquire the prerequisite teacher approvals on the paperwork I needed to file to run for the position. Once I accomplished that goal, I did nothing to make anyone aware of my candidacy. No signs in the hallways nor any of the other traditional trappings of high school student government campaigns. I devoted all my energy to composing a speech that made it quite clear that I treated the election with the same solemnity Monty Brewster displayed in his campaign for mayor.
The Road to Mooseville 
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