Churchill, something is wrong. Hideously, horribly wrong. I don’t know what’s happening to me. My teachers no longer make any sense, emitting a babble that not even Charlie Brown himself could understand. The school building, a place I once cherished so dearly that I often found it impossible to restrain myself from skipping merrily down its snow white halls, now repulses me beyond measure. Like the one port-o-potty at a Chili Cook-Off, I can’t even imagine stepping through CHS doors anymore.
I am faring no better in the outside world either. My energy reserves have been depleted, and the Energizer Bunny with his Lithium Titanium Batteries and drum set are nowhere to be found. My lethargy forces me to spend hours, even days at a time thrown upon my bed in an endless slumber that is borderline hibernation, minus the pinecones. For confounding reasons, I have a strange desire to only wear sweats, eat unhealthy amounts of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and/or Froot Loops and watch episodes of Family Guy I’ve seen like a million billion times (actually). Most troubling, these symptoms seem to vanish into thin air during the weekend, when I routinely find myself shirtless and dancing.
Indeed, it would appear as if I have been stricken with the dreaded senioritis (senioritora infestans). Originating in my feet, it has coursed through my body, snaking its way through my tissue, up the lining of my lower intestine and through my esophagus until its fatal culmination in my cranium. With the onset of second semester it has taken complete control of my body, thrusting its dripping, puss-encrusted tentacles through my exposed eye sockets and wrapping itself around my head. For all you underclassmen out there, that is exactly what happens, and explains why my hair routinely looks the way it does (I assure you, it is not bed-head).
Seeing as how well entrenched the entity has become, I see no reason as to why I should fight it. For as much as I despise sleeping through class or sometimes not being able to come to school at all, any attempt to overcome this abomination would be futile; Charlie Brown had a better shot at kicking that football. Instead, I choose to embrace my condition and perhaps enjoy second semester a little bit – although I don’t see how I ever could. So without further ado, I present to you my brief list – I do have senioritora infestans after all – of how I plan to cope with my rapidly dissolving ambition:
1. Literally sleep through every class. I know this sounds simple and I’ m sure some of you out there are saying right now, “But Ben I already do that and I don’t even have senioritis yet.” Well imaginary person I just made up possibly named Archibald and/or Doug. What I’m talking about is literally sleeping through all seven periods start to finish, from bell to bell. Aside from the difficulty of having to fall asleep that fast, consistently and routinely, you also aren’t able to talk to that one person you really want to talk with or pay attention for even half a second in class. This is truly a daunting feat that I’m not sure has ever been accomplished. Thank God I’m up for the task.
2. Lounge in the dens of the teacher (teachteria taxus), known as teachers’ lounges’ disguised as one of them (button-up, khakis, glasses, book ajar, quizzical look upon my face) until I am accepted as a member of the clan. From here I will be able to take notes on this elusive species and find out once and for all where they go once the school day ends. I’m guessing it has something to do with a cave, a cape and/or a coffin.
3. Wear my hood with a hat on underneath and spark a gang war, rocking the very foundations of this institution.
4. Attend one of those seminars you hear about in the announcements during lunch. Actually, I have no intention of doing this. Instead, I hope to attend a ridiculously fancy restaurant during lunch where I will act hurried and short on time, thus looking really important. My return to school is questionable.
5. Do the aforementioned activity, but instead go to a venue associated with the late afternoon. I’m sure you can meet some very interesting people at a Dave and Buster’s/Chuckie Cheese’s/Night Club/Pottery Barn at 11:30 on a Wednesday.
6. Hack into the school’s mainframe and change my grades until I am apprehended by the FBI and forced to flee to Mexico in my white Bronco while wearing a blue ribbon in my hair…this one is wrong on quite a few levels.
No matter how I plan to approach these newfound goals in my life, I have only the loftiest expectations for myself. Instead of looking upon the senioritis festering in me with scorn and anguish for robbing me of the ability to do my one true love, homework, I will accept it and keep my head high. It is my duty, nay, my newfound obligation to ensure that I find myself in the wackiest of scenarios so that I may in turn provide a great benefit to the public, whatever that may be. I am the Wildcard.
