Every weekday…

I hate the rush of cold, cascading water coming down on me every morning. It is unbearable. It’s ludicrous! An obligatory ritual one must partake within just to begin the day; a school day. Why must I partake in such an absurd action if anguish is to come my way in such a repeated manner? Why shall I even bring up the consideration of even partaking in such saddening ritual? Such rituals are now involuntarily done as if it was an additional skill in my life. The useless shower gel just eagerly melts away from my palms like it was made for me to vex; To get unnecessarily angry and make me throw a tantrum on how I am going to eradicate it’s pitiful existence. Sometimes, it just pours out of the bottle profusely and annoyingly. I wonder why I haven’t set it ablaze yet? Would that even be possible? If it were, I want to give it a piece of my mind. 

The shower is one of the worst bits. It hits one like he was the decapitator of his weak, sickly and innocent old father who was not able to pay up his taxes. It continually aims for my head and shoots out Arctic ice water like a firing squad with howitzers and their aim is the disembodiment of my soul. The water doesn’t even warm up at all! It stays cold until I decide that I don’t stink of yesterday’s expired egg salad and then I realize I made a bad mistake, everyday. Coming out of the shower is like being naked in the Arctic and at the same time being encompassed by an avalanche of unholy snow. Reaching for the towel is the best thing I experience every school morning.

Then, I get my clothes on so the murderous cold doesn’t affect me anymore. They stay in my wardrobe like frozen, perplexed children in the middle of nowhere. They hurdle themselves into an obvious corner that only visually deficient individuals are incapable of viewing. It gets easier putting them on everyday, but, I then experience the impending horror they call trousers. They were always too big for me. I just had to carry bed sheet- like clothing with the same coloring and shine as leather upholstery. My shoes, like black ash that erected from the beauteous cinders of a magnificent volcano dipped in mud and dust from reoccurring waves of harmmatan. There was no point in cleaning them. It was either the dust from the road I trod upon, or just an individual, ignorant of the fact that I possess feet. My socks were the only thing giving me hope and reassurance. Their colorful patterns and stripes, their alluring shapes and sleep inducing comfort. Too bad I had to wear the black ones! They felt like as if tight nylon bags were forcefully glued to my skin, cutting off the flow of essential blood to my feet, making me walk like Frankenstein with a bad case of diarrhea. Their color; demonic black of course! Then it shimmers like old glitter with faded colors under any light. I despise the presence of glitter.

My bag, an uncharted terrain of old books and sweet wrappers. Even ominous pieces of paper seem to exist in my bag. I choose not to clean it out. It was old, dusty crimson red and faded black, torn in some places and stunk of the aftermath of heat and dirt. It’s other features; I guess I’ll leave it for another day.

Resistance to such elements were always futile. Well, except from the weekends where I choose to goof off and waste my time reminiscing and contemplating over the horrors that occurred in school.


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