|
i am walking down the halls to gather this change from "the registrar's office." a young man jokingly says, "give me your money." this is one of those scrawny mean people you would be frightened of on the streets or in a foriegn land, because you know they are angry at their fathers and want to KILL YOU FOR IT despite their jokes. but i was not in these places. i was standing on brown tile in a stuffy hall. this place made me bored, and boredom makes one brave. so i said, "i need to buy a book with this money. it is for the purpose of my education. if i give this money to YOU, you will run to the bathroom and slip it under a stall for a package of powdery brain plugs." having thus correctly deduced the situation, the man THEN hung his head and warned me the registrar's office would not exchange moneys. he was right and it was dumb. "give me your money" i said to the lady behind the desk. this woman, this thing that likes to lump people into a collective smoothly running machine characterized by how much black SMOKE puffs from one's dark geometrical shape, looked up and said, "go back to your classroom for your IDENTIFICATION TAG." i GO BACK. the man that sits in front of the class is saying things like, "in just a few minutes i will read a sentence from this book that will CHANGE YOUR LIFE" and so forth. but i must get my identification tag or else i am a featureless carbon based lump and nobody cares about me unless i whine loudly about sexually abusive teachers. i slump down the halls in the bent stupor that builds my character. this time i encounter a man with a huge cart of pepsi-cola toting behind him. he reminds me of the men that the school hires to move food to and from food carrying trucks. this food bill probably amounts to $4000 every day and consists of, but is not limited to, several 5 gallon paint bucket of beans. there are also giant tins of desert. on the lid of one desert tin, it once said "giraffe cobbler." i am pretty sure the school hires these men only because they were more like mammals than humans somehow with all this food and physical concern, making loud grunting noises when heaving the beans and barbeque buckets onto a circular table in the middle of a room. the man with the pepsi-cola carts also made these sounds while loading the pepsicola machine. he was muttering about his back. what am i coming to, he muttered. blah blah. grunt grunt. he was a great hog bent there in the blue glow with his pink backside showing. okay okay, so i arrive BACK at the office and the same woman says something along the lines of how she was glad i was all part of the system again and i tried my best to make my facial features sink into my skull so i looked like one of those "faceless men!!" you find in dramatic comic books and things. the scrawny mean kid from before walks by outside the office and shouts things, mainly "THEY AINT DOIN NOTHIN FOR YOU, FAG". i think "fag" is a term used affectionately in these parts. it is okay. the mechanical woman still would not give me change. "give me your pass" she says. BUT i lacked this scrap of yellow paper with a signature from a person with the letters "teacher" written on his tag. at this point i am thinking about insects and the benign continuation of life because i do not want to think about walking down the same electrical wired florescent hall again. these things become monotonous in a way that makes you shrink instead of sprout a corageous lion mane. it is also the type of thing you would unabashadly blather on about because nothing else really comes to mind and one nonidealist thought is just as good as another in the grand scheme of things. the grand scheme of things is a thing best left unthought of. in any case, it ends up like this: i slump back into my classroom where i am identified as JOSEY K. SMITH WITH THE WORDS "HELLO INNER GLOW" WRITTEN ON HER LEFT KNEECAP and the man identified as MISTER MONTON, SPANISH EMBASSADOR AND A HARD MAN TO CATCH UP WITH says "give me your money." i do as he orders and he CRUMPLES it angrily in his fist and stalks from the classroom to obtain this currency himself, leaving me at the front. a girl in the front row is laughing at a funny joke a boy just told. i redden and quickly scoot back to my seat and think that maybe i would like to spend more time there. and you wonder if i mean this in the literal sense or not.
by The JavaScript Source
|
