Lanyards

As of Thursday, January 28, I have successfully managed to abstain myself to succumbing to the austere decrees of Daviess County High School’s incumbency. My devious ingenuity allowed me to stealthily steer clear of the potential dangers of not having an ID which present themselves in most every corner of Daviess County High School. I deem that I should be entitled to some trophy or reward of some type to compensate for the effort I exerted into averting from these threats. I now belong to an elite group of individuals who, like I, have managed to thwart Daviess County by going a day without a lanyard.

Daviess County is staffed by a bountiful number of teachers, some kindhearted (especially that Mrs. Gunter woman) some not, who fail to identify their students without this caustic ornament. A student can be besties with their first block teacher, but had that student left the plastic barcode slip from memory that Monday morning, the teacher suddenly loses sight of who you are and where you came from. One mistake and your teacher has already taken you off his/her top 8 on Myspace. But once you return the lanyard on, they are once more able to recall who you are. It makes sense, right?

The administration claims the purpose of this futile accessory is to ensure that teachers are able to identify students in the halls and crop out those who aren’t enrolled at the school. It is also implied that lanyards are a defense mechanism against school shootings by preventing those without an ID (in other words, those not attending classes at DCHS) from getting inside the school. However, if an individual did have intentions of causing harm, and he was lugging around an AK-47 around the Math hall, do you really think a teacher is going to say, “Hey young man, where is your ID?” No. If an adult who was walking through the halls had a 9 mm. stashed in his pocket and someone asked if he obtained his visitor pass, is he going to say “Oh, how silly of me!” or is he going to busting some caps? In the reality of things, if you conjure any scenario pertaining to a situation such as this, the person with bad intentions is going to use force anyways.

It was playing out like any other Thursday; I picked up Aeriel, got to school, found out what homework I didn’t do, found out what homework I did do but didn’t need to do and made it to class, when Mr. Mason said over announcements: “Let’s have a dress code check and an ID check.” I looked down. It wasn’t there! As any other human being would, my head looked around to see who else was in the same predicament. I though, could it be? Unfortunately my wolf pack only consisted of me as a lone wolf in the pack, who had forgotten his ID. Scared I looked down at some random page in my book, acting as though I was working diligently, caught up in a deep reading pertaining to the Anglo-Saxon period. Success! The substitute failed to acknowledge my fault. If it were any other day, I would have volunteered to go buy an ID, because I’m proudly close to breaking the record for the most bought IDs. But on this particular Thursday I had no money.

It’s a shame that students have to add something so insignificant to their list of things to remember in the morning. On a personal level, it’s not easy to look as good as I do in the mornings, so I find it hard to remember things so insignificant in the scheme of things. Between lanyards and IDs, I’ve easily spent over $100, which is absolutely ridiculous. It’s petty things such as these which contribute to a hard knock life.

Time is an Hourglass Glued to the Table

"My adolescence progressed normally: enough misery to keep the death wish my usual state, an occasional high to keep me from actually taking the gas-pipe."
-Faye Moskowitz

Approximately 25.0% of my week is squandered in an atmosphere populated with persons of my age, which is in the ballpark of roughly 42 hours. 88.3% of this time is comprised of the 35 loathsome hours spent simulating an ideal student in school, none of which are used to socialize. Still, 14.3% of my uninhibited time is bestowed towards my relationship which I somehow cope. Dwindled down to 2% of my time with peers, the time I donate to my friends amount to a whopping norm of 1 hour a week. Out of the 168 hours which make up a week, I expend 0.5% of my valued time with my genuine pal’s. So why?

The grounds on which hinder my amity aren’t accounted for because I don’t have bud’s (though I’m beginning to question); I do. It doesn’t pertain to disliking them; I don’t. The bond I share with my girlfriend isn’t liable for impeding on it; it doesn’t. The answer lies beyond the ties I share between people and concern factors that should be on the top of everyone’s agenda.

My intentions aren’t wholeheartedly intended to bore you, but perhaps a few additional figures won’t do much damage. I contribute 11.31%+ more time working (if you call opening my jaws labor) than I do with my devoted friends. What’s worse is I allocate 27.0%+ of my week studying and doing homework whereas a bare minimum of 25.0% (the equivalent time spent “mingling”) is allotted to shuteye. I find this particular statistic disturbing and the reason I thrive daily off of caffeine; I bleed caffeine products. This leaves an insignificant percentile which can be classified as the ‘Leisure Percentile,’ including time to eat breakfast (Yes, Little Debbie Fudge Rounds and left over, cold pizza from last night are a pleasure) and dinner and sustain my alluring tan (laughter?).

But how do I spend 45+ hours a week busied by schoolwork? Easy. My mind has some deficiency which hampers its capability of learning. By this I am referring to its tendency to only retain certain information when I have a full understanding of (e.g. having to know why it does something to commit to memory what that certain thing does). Hence I am frequently up until 2 a.m. reading and rereading.

I query the morality of my schedule at times, yes. Sometimes I ponder whether a Commonwealth/Honors Diploma are worth the exertion, or whether or not my next to nothing income will endure the long anticipating college experiences and make an impact on my impending debt. Is the time designated to work worth wagering my high school experience and vise versa? I deem trial and error is merely the only means as to attaining the answer, where one trial is feasible. I’ll take my chances at living a hard knock life.

Chapter One: Clank, Clank

Chapter 1
Clank, Clank

I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend,
You could cut ties for all the lies
That you’ve been living in,
And if you do not want to see me again,
I would understand.
-Third Eye Blind

His mind alleged he was ready. His body language, however, suggested otherwise. His inflexible movements couldn’t veil his apprehension, and even as he advanced through the doors he felt as though his feet were laden by two iron weights affixed to shackles. His mind had made a psychological association between the shackles he had envisioned and the universal sound linked to them: clank clank.
How he found himself in the office of some illustrious therapist on this May afternoon he could not recall. What he could recall was the feeling of hope he had received several days prior when he was informed to address this specific councilor from multiple reliable sources. It has been a prolonged concern of his to seek guidance from a name which bore some significance in this particular field since the divorce. So it was here that he anticipated to be sublimed with confidence and buoyancy.
Behind a beautifully crafted, cherry wood desk sat a middle-aged woman, furiously jotting something into the browning, dry pages of what appeared to be an aged journal. Her appearance was all too breathtaking. Like some cherub her smooth, pastel skin glowed through the dimness of the room. Her lustrous brown hair vanished behind her head into a bun, with only a thin lock of hair left to be tucked behind her ear.
As he approached her desk (clank, clank) she made no sign to acknowledge his presence, but rather continued to plunge into the depths of her paperwork. Behind the square frames of her glasses her dark brown eyes skimmed over her work. He gave it a minute or two before he said anything.
“Hi, I-” he started.
Her hand shot up and presented only an index finger.
Puzzled, he recognized the signal and took this time to observe the room. How queer it seemed to him that despite the fact that it was in the heart of New York, he felt so isolated from society and how quaint it appeared. The room was decorated with antique paintings and various furniture. From somewhere out of sight came the sound of a soothing waterfall where it infinitely continued to play.
A wide window which extended from one side of the room to the other was concealed behind her by a long, brown curtain which corresponded brilliantly with the russet walls. Curious, he made his way over (clank, clank) to the window, where there was just enough room for him to fit comfortably behind her.
As he drew back the curtains a ray of blinding light seeped into the room, illuminating a small sector. Twenty stories below, swarms of New York’s inhabitants walked to and fro amongst their various concerns, unconscious of his scrutiny. Like ants they roamed from building to building, too fruitfully determined to tend to their own affairs and motivated by self-indulgence to allot their time to facilitate those “ants” which lie feebly on the streets, amongst the scraps of the upper castes. This was New York.
“I apologize,” crooned a restful, young voice. These soft-spoken words had come from the therapist. “Please, do have a seat.” She made a gesture towards a recliner located in front of her desk.
He walked submissively to the recliner (clank, clank), positioned himself comfortably, and waited unwearyingly to be subjected to a fury of inspiration, to surrender his low self-confidence to her prolific astuteness and –
“Sit up.” Her voice sang like a choir of angels and yet gave a hint of annoyance. The sudden wrath she exhibited made him a little uneasy, but he slowly brought himself to eye level (oh, how easily he found himself lost in those brown eyes!)
A minute elapsed of awkward silence before he made an attempt to begin the session. “Well, I started having these thoughts when –”
“For God’s sake, you haven’t even introduced yourself and you’re already discussing suicide?”
He questioned her seriousness before starting fresh. “My name is Vincent Simmons, and I work as a columnist for New York Times?” It was more of a question than a statement.
“Go on, Vince,” her voice chimed.
“Oh, I prefer Simmons, if you don’t mind.”
“Go on, Vince,” repeated that tranquil voice.
Tentative, and a little irritated, he endeavored once more to convey his emotions and seek her guidance to renovate his esteem. “Well, I started having these thoughts whenever I got a divorce with my wife.”
“Ex-wife,” She corrected.
Her dry sarcasm was grave inflammatory which incessantly bred disdain, and these petty mockeries had Vince seething. After a recollection of his thoughts, he continued to bitterly vent his feelings.
“She’s the only thing true to me, and I’ve never realized how alone I was until she left. I’ve abandoned my friends, my hobbies and my life in exchange for her, and I’m not so sure I was ready to give up what I had left. In the midst of all of this I’ve come to loathe her. And yet, something inside of me longs for her. I cannot help but feel that I cannot live without her,” he looked at the counselor who showed no sign of assurance or feeling of pity. “I feel death is the only option I can turn to.”
“That is utterly the most dim-witted, irrational load of nonsense I believe I’ve heard in a long time. Not to mention you have managed to win an award for the utmost unoriginality, kudos to you, Vince,” the woman appraised scathingly. She took note of his flabbergasted expression, and addressed it immediately. “You mean to tell me you’ve never heard of Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet?’”
He was on his feet (clank clank). “I’m not giving this look because I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t understand what the hell you’re getting at!”
“Vince, I’m appalled!” She was on her feet too. “You may find dying for one’s absence is ‘hopelessly romantic,’ but I assure you it’s disgusting and inconceivably unappealing. I, myself, have gone through a long, agonizing divorce, but I’ve never considered suicide. You need to get over it and toughen up. She’s out there getting stuffed like a turkey and you’re here in a tiz!”
“Listen you second-rate shrink –” his belligerence bestowed him an unbounded sum of strength, and he lunged forward towards the window, heaving his now insubstantial weights behind him (clank, clank!).”I swear to you I will jump right now!”
She appeared undisturbed. “Be my guest, Vince.”
He mentally contemplated and considered each of his options swiftly. As psychologically offensive as her words may be, something about her made him unexpectedly unperturbed. His emotions seemed to abruptly evaporate into thin air and his muscles slowly relaxed. Her attractive features seemed to paralyze his movements, and a sluggish smile crept upon her thin face. “New York city has 191 buildings that exceed 500 feet. If you were going to kill yourself, you would have done it already. Now please, take a seat.”
With white flags waving in his head, Vince collapsed onto the recliner to go over the meeting and finish the basics of their sessions.
At the conclusion of the first sitting, she made one thing clear. “Please understand, Vince, these meetings won’t compare to the typical therapy sessions. This may perhaps be our last time having a meeting in my office. I will make arrangements for our next meeting and have them contacted to you by tomorrow.”
Eager to depart and get out of her office, he nodded his head, not fully understanding what she meant. He did, however, still retain the feeling of hope that she could perhaps heal is internal infirmity, and still bore a minimal amount of enthusiasm. Upon leaving, he said, “For what it is worth, I’m glad I didn’t jump out.”
“All of the windows in this building are sealed and locked, Vince.”
Vince turned on his heel, and left the room.
Clank, clank…