Things I Carry

Things I carry…

I’m awesome, no you’re not dude don’t lie. I’m awesome, driving around in my mom’s ride. I’m awesome a quarter of my life gone by and I meet all my friends online.  The intoxicating rhythm and catchy lyrics of this song, written by Spose, always lifts my spirits when I pull into Plymouth High School’s student parking lot. At this point in the day, a series of dread-like feelings wash over me. Do I really have to go to school today? Is going to school this early in the morning worth it? What will it be like not having to come to school anymore? This feeling might be caused by the simple fact of me being a teenager or the deadly case of senioritious that I have contracted lately.

I park my Pontiac  Bonneville, which is usually towards the end of the parking lot due to the fact I tend to press snooze on my cell phone/alarm clock to many times. The number of snoozes generally increases along side of the number of weeks of school I have endured throughout the year.  While stepping out of the car, I gather all my belongings that are necessary to surviving a day in prison, I mean school.

I carry with me, in my duffel bag-like purse filled with many things that are worthless and meaningless to others, but essential to me. I carry with me a sketchbook that has been newly bought, with hopes that one day it will be filled with astonishing drawings that would make every pair of eyes that lay upon it green with envy.  I also carry my folder, full to max capacity, with school work that either needs completing or is exceedingly late. Looking at this folder I always have conflicting thoughts. Should I finish the assignments before class? Should I say “Screw it!” and let the rest my grades just fall into whatever fate decides? Simply stated, there is no answer to these questions and the pages remain a puzzling white.

I stroll through the hallway with the senior swagger; the swagger of being care free and more important than all other underclassmen. Upon entering my first class, which happens to be an art class, I carry on my shoulders a sense of panic and worry. I only have a few days left; will I get every assignment done in time? What will happen after school? Is going to work at Great Lake Cheese for the summer a good idea. Do I need anything else for college? How will I pay for college? With all these thoughts buzzing around my head, I tend to be distracted in all my classes to come.

I pull out of my purse a bag of art supplies that are vital to my projects. Within the bag are numerous pencils from 8B to HB, with multiple pencils of each; each at a different level of usage. There are my favorites the 6Bs, which are sharpened down to the bottom. Then there are two sanders, both show much signs of use. The list goes on and on regarding the numerous tools I use to complete my masterpieces.

I always dread going to my fourth hour class, Arabic. It is the only real academic class I have in my schedule that my friends literally have to push and pull me into the classroom. Even when I am in the class, my thoughts drift miles away. They drift to my brother in Grafton and the thoughts of what his future will hold and how guilty I feel that it is him in that position and not me. The rest of the day goes by in a dull mono toned way; except for my favorite class, Politics in Action, with my favorite teacher, Mr.Kiszely. This is my favorite class because I can give my opinions, whether they are wanted or not, and ask” why” to rules or policies that most other teachers would get distraught over. The day ends on a good note with me doing something I love doing, writing. This is where my thoughts and ideas are able to flow through my complex brain onto a sheet of paper in such a way that could never be duplicated, unless it is plagiarize. 

Strutting out the building of Plymouth High School, I always look back over my shoulder while walking out to my Bonneville with an air of confidence simply because I’m sexy and I know it.