Finals

I am sick. Not dying sick. Actually, maybe. I have had the worst headache for the past three days. I am sore throughout my body and I do not want to do anything. But anything does not want to do me — finals are this week.

The other day my Accounting 102 class voted on a test Monday and Tuesday of this week. Why? Good question. I thought it was the stupidest idea. Not only did I have the SATs on Saturday, but I have a 70 term history review sheet due this Wednesday. Since the SATs top accounting, I ditched studying accounting for the rest of the week and strictly studied for the SATs. I said I’ll study after the SATs on Saturday. Well, not only was I completely drained (mentally, physically and academically) — the last thing I wanted to do was cram useless accounting crap into my head. So I just said “screw it” and decided not to study. I had to work Sunday, so that was pretty much off limits as for studying goes. But I squeezed in a little after work – I did the review sheet.

I walked into accounting today and was fully prepared to wing it. I don’t care. This is an elective and I have about had it with school. No matter what I do — how well I score — this year is still getting averaged into the past three, which are low. I averaged in a “100″ for this year and there would only be an increase of 2 points for my overall GPA. I’m dealing mid to low nineties. I’m fine. The test started, there were a few I blatantly did not know. But that’s okay. I nailed at least ten of them. But the ending — Haha. That was fun. The idiots who made the test decided to throw in some equations as if we would remember them. So, I totally flopped the last ten questions. Oh well. It would be wise for me to do some more review tonight. But I’ll pass. Give me a 70.

So, I am taking these tests. Suffering from an immense about of heat stroke. And dying. Sickly dying. And the fact that no one is catering to my needs at home is just as disappointing. My brother is sick, too. Except, he’s throwing up. So unless I start barfing — I’ll get no attention and he’ll get it all because he is the “more sick” child. Which makes sense. I’m not asking for much — I’d just like a little compassion and maybe some coffee when I wake up. By the way, the only reason I survived for the first five hours of the day was because of the amount of coffee and advil I had this morning. Oh, and everyone at my school decided to spear my side — I checked Facebook this morning and everyone and their mother were talking about how they just pulled an all night. I don’t care! I need sleep! More sleep! More more more!

.. While I am on the topic of “more” – I’d like to bash the redhead at work. He’s redheaded and Spanish. He likes to brag that he is Spanish. Firecrotches can’t be taken seriously as it is. Let alone them being Spanish. He was jokingly — or at least I thought he was — about taking a trip to NYC. First of all — he called it New York City. Call it Manhattan or The City. It makes a ton more sense because you do not include the nasty boroughs that can hardly be deemed the city. But, anyway. He idolizes my fashion sense. And myself. He idolizes me. Considering I am a bit higher, socially, economically, academically — every which way. Higher than all of them. So, I agreed to go to on this “NYC Trip” with him. First of all, it reminds me of those old things they do at the community center. They have these bus trips to New York City. They are the cheesiest thing. But if you are a gold digger — they’re great. First you knit a sweater with your oldie, and then you start pushing pins in other places. But, back to firecrotch: he keeps harping me about it. As if I want to go. I don’t. The last thing I want to do is go to the city with him. He’d probably tag me along and tell everyone and I mean everyone that we are friends. “This is my friend Michael! Right, mike?” “Yes, Rob. We are ‘friends.’” And then he’ll smile like a faggot. He’s obsessed with skateboarding, too. Not only is a latino-redhead, but he skateboards. And he’s all into the ghetto sneakers. You know, the ones you see people walking around wearing with the ghetto shirts. He started to show me a pair of “shoes” he was selling someone. Firstly — never sell your old junk. Your old junk is yours. Throw it out. Do not resell it. It’s trashy and nasty. I asked, “What in God’s name can you wear this that?” “You see the blue, the purple and the white?” “Mhm..” “You wear either blue, purple or white. Or black.” “.. And, that’s fashionable?” “Yeah, son.” He uses son. He’s not only latino, redheaded, skateboarder, but a person who uses “son.” How in God’s name did I get stuck with a person like this is appalling.

Now since he loves these shoes, he wants to hit a “few areas” — one being Fight Club. I refuse to enter anything with the word ‘fight’ in it. Especially with a redheaded latino kid. That’s a definite no. The other was the Nike store. We’d probably be the only white ones in there. And I’d obviously show a great sense of discomfort. Kind of like I do when I talk to coworkers in front of normal looking customers. (Thankfully, that rarely happens; our customers are usually black, old or just a mix of the two.) And then he needs to get his mother a gift. A gift. As if the mother needs a gift. So, he proceeded to tell me: “I need to get my mom a gift by the 14th. That’s her birthday.” “Oh, really? I can’t do this week. I have too many finals to just wander in the city.” “We need to go on our NYC Trip soon.” (There he goes calling it the community center-esque trip.) “Definitely.” “Before summer. It’ll get hot.” “We’ll deal with the weather. It’s not that ba-” and he walked around. He had an hour. But it doesn’t get hot in the summer. Okay, sure. It’s brutal and disgusting. But it’s no different than walking down the streets where I live.

He comes back to me later and starts to talk about his mom again. I show a fae of “I don’t care.” But that doesn’t stop him. He begins to tell me he wrote his mom a poem and a letter. A poem? .. And a letter? Oh, really, now? Don’t go overboard. Or anything remotely excessive. Personally, as artistic as I am (kind of, okay, not really, but I like to say I am), poems are still stupid. Haiku, taiku, whatever. They’re all stupid. Write a blog to express how you fell. Don’t make it rhyme. So, I am sure this poem is half-ass and just plain bad. I wonder if he typed it, actually. If no, then there are probably some grammatical mistakes. If not a lot. Or as overly excessive as the whole ‘poem and letter’ business. And the letter is probably something along the lines of, “Thanks for being the best mom evur!” and more hogwash. And then he “confides” in me, “She raised me on her own. I owe this to her.” You owe what to her? First of all, kiddo — your mother owes you. She is biologically, and legally, obligated to supply you with food, shelter and some more crap. Most of those pertain to the latter, but the former is more along the lines of your material goods. Like your Minivan and your Nike shoes. If I was to ever give my mom a letter, a poem and then a gift. One — she’d take me to the nearest drug testing facility. In the car, she’d probably text all her friends saying that she is becoming the mother the e-mail she got yesterday said because she didn’t forward it to 15 people. Two — check to see if there was any resale, investment or even regift value of the gift. She’d probably read the poem and tell me that it was “nice” and she’ll keep it “in her office.” Meaning: she’ll go to work and shove it in her office and then complain that she didn’t get anything good for her birthday. She does that for every holiday. My dad bought her this gorgeous ring for Christmas. The next morning, she wailed on the couch saying that it “wasn’t enough.” Or that it wasn’t “big enough.” So my dad went to upgrade it. Two sizes up. Just to make her “content.”

There are some pretty stark differences between our mothers, and even us. And I am glad. If I was singlepaycheckly raised by only my mother — I’d consider suicide. And SUNY Schools. And maybe some Nike shoes. Or, or — the best yet — skateboarding. In time, I plan to study millions of kids and see what makes them what they are. And I wonder if his mom ever thinks – “Ugh. If only I kept my legs shut. I wouldn’t have head to deal with this red-headed son of a bitch.” If I was in her shoes, I totally would.