The school I go to has giant scales welded onto the gate, a nauseatingly banal symbol for justice. At first, I didn’t like it because it was kitsch and reminded me of the poetry I used to write when I was fifteen. It wasn’t until several months later I realized, from three stories high, that there’s a large charred textbook in one of the trays. It was then that it became an apt representation for the state of my relationship with my academics.
I’m in a Neroesque phase of nonchalance, playing sick tunes on a fiddle while my dreams burn. Before I joined this place, I was promised a lot of things. I was told there would be debauchery around every corner my curious eyes dared wander into; that I’d be catching previously undocumented venereal diseases every weekend but always be too drunk to realize it. But the truth is, the greatest threat to my health I’ve faced here is having to keep my brain awake throughout a three-hour lecture on the super-exciting concept of property taxes. I was told I’d learn how to get away with murder (because people keep eating my stuff and I’m too polite to stop them), but instead I found myself in a library for a week trying to cram an entire chapter on why I can’t sue a baby only for me to take the test and realize I know less than Jon Snow with amnesia.
I don’t have much in the way of reprieve from the agony of my schoolwork. The object of my affection always manages to stay out of reach. I could walk up, impress her with my nonconformist conceptions then ask her to skip lectures and watch BoJack Horseman all day with me, but I figure she’s been brainwashed by the cabals of bibliophiles in my class. Now she wishes for a charming dreamy-eyed boy with remarkable diction and a whimsical penchant for unlit cigarettes to sweep her off her feet by reciting Emily Dickinson from memory, too delusional to accept the fact that she’ll end up marrying some idiot named Kevin with bad hair and a drug problem. But I don’t blame her. I, too, fantasize about finding a girl who will share my love for quirky pajamas.
If it weren’t for the view I had from my room’s window, I’d have dropped out to become a drug-dealing stripper ages ago. It was a nice view. Idyllic even. I would kick up my feet onto the window sill and inadvertently sink into deep contemplation, sometimes for hours, until the neighbors came back from class and wrenched me from my reverie with their house music.
Basically, I’m still in school because some trees in a field looked pretty to me. Heh. Life.
Anyway, this very brief post was meant to be expositional. If I haven’t texted you back in eight months, just know I was busy being free-spirited all over campus. Let’s reconnect sometime. Buy me drinks and I’ll tell you all about my priorities. If I was in a study group with you and I wasn’t picking your calls, I was all caught up in reading about how Lil Wayne, the greatest artist of our generation, lost his virginity. It won’t happen again, though. I’ve changed, please take me back.
I have to go pay attention to my cat now, remind her who I am so she stops clawing at me when I walk too close.
Happy holidays, ya bleeping dalmatians. Please make time to watch Die Hard with your loved one(s) this festive season. Thank you.