I have a calendar in my bedroom. It’s this giant–well, not giant–calendar, I suppose, that has all my favorite little due dates and events written all across the days; and they are numbered.
I was looking at this calendar yesterday, flipping forward through time to the month of May and thinking about what I wanted for my birthday when, out of nowhere, it hit me: I am going to graduate high school a week after my birthday, on May 27th!
“Oh, Mamma mia,” I said–then I passed out on the floor.
Correction: I did not pass out. Rather, I screamed in my brain–or my brain screamed in me?–and went to finish that darn math homework that I had been putting off for three days. So, yes, I did freak out. Everyone freaks out. But that’s okay. It’s only high school, after all.
Only high school?
I have to find a college!
I have to buy a house! Or an extremely cheap apartment with a dirtbag for a landlord!
I have to cook! And not Hot Pockets or Pop-Tarts!
I have to be a man!
How does that work, by the way? Do I grow a rug on my chest the night after graduation and find myself speaking like Christopher Reeves in Superman? Is my dad gonna leave a pair of boots outside my door with a note reading, “Son, it is time for these boots to be filled?”
High school is slowly slipping away…I think I might cry, tear up a little. I’m being taken willingly away from this minefield of social cliques where, if you have a wayward opinion, you’ll get the shit kicked out of you and be forced to eat it on a silver platter; where the food is–okay, the food is all right. Oh, sob, sob, tear; waterfalls from my eyeballs. Tell my principal to save a spot for me in the lunchroom for when I–oh, wait, I won’t be coming back.
At least in college, or, hopefully in college, there will be freedom and excellent food and magnificent teachers and Shetland ponies…and four quartz diamonds and…a pool shaped like a brain and filled with money?
Sorry, I was reading from the wrong script.
Someone traded me for Impossible Fantasies For When You’re Totally Broke.