Staking Tightropes

A scathing recollection of my wasted time spent within my wonderful school. Written with three measures of a favorite tea and only five measures of half seriousness.

          It seems like all to often I go to a comfortable sleep on my bad mattress just to wake up at a desk staring through water organic lenses at some well dressed creature explaining to me why I really ought to kill myself reading this boring passage of some book. It doesn't seem to understand completely that by forcing me into lugging around another neat pile of words composed into uninteresting sentences wears me down and makes me lose focus and balance. Falling from a tightrope is never a positive experience.

 

 

        Outside the room lie angular pathways connecting the planetary realms of the creatures. These paths are always infested with sloths. Navigating through the crowded carbon based maze of stereotypical bipeds can be a difficult task There are some that feel necessary to bar passage by collecting into tightly packed hives, constantly chirping away like fish bait crickets or the ever annoying summer cicadas. I harbor a huge boat filled with hate and fly swatters for those types. They come with the territory I suppose. Every which and where has obstacles that are often enough to warrant mentioning humans. That still doesn't make them any less of a plague.

 

 

        Most of the day is spent sitting at a desk is spent waiting. Waiting for the day to end, waiting for the next assignment, waiting for silence, waiting for death, and waiting for Miss Queen Princess Numeral First One Bestestest Ever Ever to descend from his moral mountain of preachery and nag and bad ideas. At the worst it feels like a rot of sorts, decaying my brain, muscles, and spine. Sitting in eight different seats a day takes an expensive toll and doesn't offer any concessions. Free coffee or donuts would make it slightly less completely unbearable, but coffee tastes like spoiled mud. At the best it feels as if a mole is dexterously and gently burrowing into my brain. I don't mind the partially blind creature and consider him a welcome friend. There's worse parasites in my life.

 

 

        Some of the worst burdens occur in those clogged arteries of the building I mentioned before hand, partly because of these useless things called lockers and halfly because I refuse to use said lockers. A locker consists of a lock, at this point the name and what the item actually entails shake hands, nod, kiss both cheeks, and curse each others mothers, and a scrap metal cage of sorts that keeps the cages contents from escaping or robbing any of the poor innocent hallway blocking insects. I choose not to bother with these cages because I don't feel it necessary to have to wade through a swamp, mount a mountain, and walk twenty paces just to get a book so I have something to stare at during my next seating session. I would rather keep all of my staring articles collected my a black cloth staring article bag. The bag gets too heavy pretty quick and quickly causes my back to ache, but I'd rather carry around the pain and poor spine alignment than resort to imprison my belongings in a locker. Being a teenage Quasimodo is bound to be fashionable with the leeches sooner or later anyways.

 

 

        In my free and righteous bag I carry the schools staring things, blank sheets of paper to fill with information I don't want to look at again, and notebooks to fill with the paper and make an dishonest attempt organizing the paper into pleasing arrangements for the instructor's sake. There's a container of crushed red pepper to liven up the very dead school food. A pocket watch that usually stays in my pocket but sometimes wonders into my bag to greet its neighbors. The watch is mainly for aesthetic appeal than practical use. I might use it more if it could be set to the end of my sentence in this boundless prison. Not that boundless now actually, the overseers are throwing up barbed wire fences to keep in would be escapees. Novels that I don't stare up, but read slowly as to soak in all of the water I accidentally spilled on them. Pens to doodle whatever has seeped into my empty skull to bounce around until it tears a hole from which it escapes. I don't have a good memory.

 

 

        Or a good attention span. Its been completely eroded by television and internet. Maybe if they were more interesting I wouldn't have spent so much time trying find something that resembled stimulating entertainment. Maybe if I had a better memory I wouldn't keep trying day by day, week by week, month by four feet, to search for that one special thing that will satisfy my amusement thirst. Maybe I would've found it already if I didn't have to spend all day sponging at my cell. I call it hell, it likes to call me student.