Tired?

Remember high school? Boy, I do. The orderlies, the bitchy nurses, the occasional priest. I was popular without lifting a finger. Frankly, I was worried about what I'd find under that finger. The art students loved me. We each painted the same monochromatic landscape over and over again. It was the thought that counted, and we didn't know our numbers very well. The journalism teacher was crazy about me. I think he wanted to marry me, and as far as I could tell, we were both Catholic; but something kept us apart. Was it my lack of a diploma? If so, why did he think I was there, if not for the diploma? The cheerleaders respected me and granted me all the space I desired. Given their bizarre predilection for Taco Bell and Calvin Klein's Obsession, I needed all the space I could get. The jocks had strait jackets emblazoned with their number. Fortunately, I never lettered in a sport. I always saw sport as unnecessary. Sport won't help you organize your shiny things, and sport will never help you find the comb that fell into your skull in the locker room.