I Am The Student You Hate

I just wanted to announce my presence to everyone, although most of you already noticed me come into the classroom. My brightly colored clothes and exaggerated, attention-seeking gesticulations should have clued you in on that. If not, you may have already noticed me because of the rage that rises from your belly to fill your entire body every time someone speaks my name. Yes, I am the student you hate.

I rise early in the morning each day so that I may begin my annoying routine. I awake and immediately make my bed, because cleanliness is next to Godliness, and I certainly think quite highly of my living area and, therefore, myself. I then find my clothes, which I have laid out the night before, and walk into my bathroom to cleanse myself in an efficient and timely manner. I then take a leisurely walk down Commonwealth Avenue to get to our classroom right on time — five minutes after class has started.

When the professor begins speaking, I will walk into the room, using my wide swagger to take up as much space as humanly possible. I will then throw all of my things down onto my desk, so that everyone has to stop and watch me. Why? Only to make your day a little more miserable.

Or, perhaps, I am not like this. Perhaps today I will attend our large lecture on time. I will listen to our professor speak eloquently about philosophy. I will develop a question in my head, but remain silent. I am waiting. The professor will finish his lecture early, and tell his students that he's going to let them go early to frolic in the wonderful weather. Now is my time. I raise my hand and open my mouth, spewing forth a lengthy, meandering diatribe that has little to nothing to do with anything taught in class that day. I will keep everyone trapped inside our non-ventilated classroom while I continue to waste everyone's time. Why? Because I enjoy bothering people.

When I get hungry, I will travel to the George Sherman Union dining area to purchase some medium-quality foodstuffs. I will stand in line, along with everyone else, making sure to position myself in front of the busiest looking person in the entire room. When I get to the cashier, I will not only dispute the amount of money I have to pay for several minutes, but I will also choose not to use my aptly named convenience points, instead opting to pay with a pile of change that could constitute a significant portion of my body weight. Why? Because I think time is something to be wasted and people are things to be annoyed.

When it comes time to apply for a summer internship, I will wait until the last possible day to submit my applications. I will spell my name incorrectly on these applications and write an unintelligible cover letter. Instead of enclosing my resumé, I will enclose a toaster strudel. With frosting. Compared to you, I am woefully unqualified for this internship, but because I know someone who works there, I will get it and you will not. The next time I see you in the hallway, I will gloat. Why? Because I believe mediocrity should always be trumpeted and rewarded.

I am the person who wears suit jackets over junky clothes. I am the person who thinks being loud somehow equates with being funny. I am the person who works at the front desk in an office you need to get answers from, and I know absolutely nothing. I write ranting manifestos in local newspapers about subjects that clearly escape the reach of my understanding. I parade my perfect body around to make you insecure. I refer to our nation as the "United $tates" because I think that makes me clever and subversive. I can't sit still for more than two minutes without making a half-quip that nobody wanted to hear, nor was better off for hearing. I drive a sport utility vehicle, for crying out loud.

Someday, though, I will get my comeuppance. Your hard work, dedication and piety will land you an impressive office on Easy Street. You will cheer because you know how tough it is to get office space in such an exclusive neighborhood. My good fortune will run out in favor of those who deserve it, and you may one day pass me, living in a box, when you drive your sensible automobile past Skid Row. Then, we will all learn a lesson — a lesson about life, humanity and the absurdity of it all.

Oh, did I forget to mention my name is Everyman? Well, it is. Damn, these morality plays are hard to write.