Repetition.

Eighth-grade history, which they called Social Studies, was held in a biology lab. 

Rather than sitting at desks in rows, we sat at lab tables, two students each. Mike sat to my left and shared a table with me. He took photographs for the yearbook.

Travis sat behind me. Let me preface this: I do not, as a rule, enjoy the company of people named Travis.  I do not recall if eighth-grade Travis (though by repute he had held that status for more than one year) was my first horrible Travis or just a memorable one.

But Travis he was. He wore a denim jacket and black jeans and a band T-shirt. Probably the Stones or Zeppelin or something classic-rocky because that's what Travises wore then.

And in class, he sat behind me. He didn't pay much attention to class. And he would, pretty regularly, lean forward and whisper into my ear:

"Pussy. Puuuuuuuuuuussy," he drew it out, in a long, country accent. "Pussy."

It was meant to be intimidating. And it did intimidate me. But Mike told his friends about it, and they told others, and it began to be this self-propogating in-joke of people walking up to me:

"Puuuuuuuuussy. Pussy."