School - A Musing

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is another short musing following the life of our unnamed protagonist. I eventually aim to have a series enough of these to create a book compilation.

Also, the song I'm referring to later in the story is "Red Light Indicates Doors Are Secured" by Arctic Monkeys.

Submitted: December 05, 2010

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Submitted: December 05, 2010



School is a joy, I say. I’ve been going to it for most of my life. I’m going to it currently, too. I go to Harvard College of Medicine, and have an absolutely terrific time. Plus, my grades are high below par (I never understood the phrase “Above par” because in golf, that would be a bad thing). As they are currently, I would say that I am keeping a consistent score of -3.
I woke up this morning ready to embark to my morning classes. I grabbed my school materials, said goodbye to my parents, checked out the window to make sure that the Withersons were not up to their usually Soviet trickery, grabbed my mother’s coat (it is very comfortable, actually, and I believe that I should wear mother’s clothes more often), and headed outside.
I am only a sophomore, having started when I was partially between the ages of 25 and 26. I waited several years after my high school graduation to submit my application. This was because I wanted to make sure that I had lost the scent of my evil ex-principal, who was secretly plotting to hijack my application during its fifteen minute trip from the local post office to the dean of Harvard. He was then planning on sabotaging my application, forcing me to stay in high school forever. There, he would force-feed me bottomless spaghetti and meatball bowls until I cried.
Luckily, his plan did not succeed due in large part to my cunning.
I knew that I was destined to go to Harvard from a young age. I had the highest grades in the class, and kept a consistent 4.0 GPA until my graduation from high school. Also, on my application, I included the code. You see, Harvard is a college of codes and patterns, and if you want to get in no matter what, you simply need to place a series of dots at the bottom of your written application.
I can’t tell you the code though, because my friend Kyle (who knows the President) told me to keep it a secret, even if I was offered candy.
But how I got into the prestigious university is beside the point. As I was saying before, I started to walk to class first thing this morning. But first, I had to stop by my friend Frank’s dorm to discuss the previous night’s assignment.
I arrived at Frank’s room at about 10:00 in the morning. He opened the door, said hello, and mentioned something about the new cologne he had bought. I walked into the room, and sat down quickly at the edge of his bed, before the clutter that he had spread throughout proceeded to devour me. The coat that was sitting in the hamper at the back corner of the room appeared to be particularly carnivorous.
Frank was a terrific student as well, along with me. Then again, it was Harvard, so we were expected to be the utmost tip of the intellectual pyramid.
He had his computer opened on the desktop beside his bed. He had Pandora opened up, which he tells me is some sort of online radio station, but is clearly the base of a secret brainwashing cult determined to take over the world (or at least the state of South Dakota). The computer was blasting some song about snow as an advertisement for iced coffee danced about the screen, taunting my deep-seeded insecurity regarding warm beverages being turned into cold beverages.
“I really believe that you should clean this room,” I suggested to Frank, who was now grabbing a Pepsi out of the mini-fridge that lies in the center of his closet.
“I know, I know…” he says begrudgingly, not entirely willing to accept the burden of manual labor being added to his hectic schedule, “Do you want a Coke?”
“No thank you,” I say, smiling, “But I would enjoy a Pepsi.”
“Listen, you knew what I meant,” he said, sticking his tongue out at me as he grabbed one from the refrigerator. I laughed to provide a sense of friendliness, despite the fact that I did not have any clue as to “what he meant.”
I opened my soda, allowing the small bubbles of fizz to quietly explode for a second, looking down into the small hole that my tab had placed into the lid. I enjoy moments like that - moments when there is nothing to worry about but fizz.
No evil ex-principals with noodles and processed meat, no Soviet spies secretly plotting to destroy all that is good and righteous in this world, no individually packaged non-fizzy caffeine beverages. Just fizz.
“Dude,” Frank said, sitting down on the bed, rocking his head erratically back-and-forth to a song in which a man with a British accent talked about Hillsborough, “So, did you finish your report yesterday?”
“I finished my report, yes,” I answered, trying to join in his head-motions while simultaneously attempting to keep a handle on my drink, “Just not yesterday.”
“Dude, how come your alwa-…” he started to say, but before he could finish his inquiry, the song concluded and the advertisement about the coffee started again. “Aw, come on!” he said, with a slight degree of anger in his voice, “I hate this commercial, Man…”
I looked at the computer screen for a second, taking note of the happy people looking up at the CGI snowflakes that rained from the sky, telling them to buy the product. “It’s a fairly simple method of brainwashing, I must say. Could they not have tried to be the least bit original?” I said, taking a large gulp of my Pepsi, and nonchalantly pinching myself on the back of the hand to make sure that I was still within my own consciousness, as opposed to that of the snowflake.
Frank laughed, “Yeah, Dude… You’re dead on with that one.” He stood up and looked out the window. “It should snow here, you know? It’s almost December.”
Poor Frank. He’s already been infected.
If he didn’t already have a Pepsi, I would offer to grab him another. The fizz might work wonders for him.

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