Pencil marked desks with scuffed and cracked corners. Indented pencil holding divots line the upper centers, inners lined with pen and pencil. The long strange—oblong indents—marred by bored deviants, long since graduated. Along with abstract scribbles, are the words. Sometimes clean, other times—obscene—nothing a bit of cleaner, can’t remove.
Not all of the faded peach desks have been marked. Some clean and pristine as the day they were made an addition to the classroom. And their pale underbellies are unmarked as well, whereas others, are not so. The marred desks, with pencil marks, along with those scuffed and cracked corners. Their pale underbellies, are coated. A fine layer of discarded chewing gum. Deviants and miscreants alike took the idea of a clean under side, and used their self-purported “prerogatives” to help eliminate a five step walk, the only requirement, had they just spat it out into the garbage can.
It can be noted that the lowest of these desks, the ones marred and marked to high heaven, tilt, and wobble. They wobble like someone—stick raised in the air, shoulders unsteadily pulled back, stomach churning, face paled and green with nausea, ready to strike an unsuspecting piñata—the kind of person who had just finished spinning for seven too many seconds. Forcing you to sit there—trapped—in a silent balancing act, trying not to squeak or wobble the chair. Although, the desks that wobble—are not peach—they are stone gray.
Their tops are not pencil marked, their corners are not scuffed and cracked. These desks, though not in every room, are broken. Corners snapped off—like some sort of karate master may have, on a day long since passed, walked in and shown off, breaking it in one hit—so eerily cleanly. They are not pencil marked, they are pencil scarred. Words, with traced lines, repeated to the point of indentation. The only salvation would be a power sander, to loudly, and painstakingly, force them from the face of the desk. Maybe that's where the corners have gone. Obscenities so volatile, must have marked them, that they had to be removed, for the sake, of the future. I wonder if those grey desks—in the old rooms, left to rot in storage—cycled out with the peach ones, I wonder what they replaced.
Did the pre-stone-grey desk, have cracked and scuffed corners? Or were their corners cut off completely? Did they have words etched into them by some violent youth with the need to share their volatile angst? Or were they like the pristine, unmarred rarities that existed among the peach desks? What color were they? Light blue, or maybe a nice dark navy? Green, an electrifying lime, or a dulled mint color? Were they a strange plastic like material, like the newer ones are? Or maybe, they were wooden. Were there seats attached to them? Like the peach desk, and grey ones? Were they as uncomfortable and awkward? Maybe they were worse.
The seating—truly—doesn't matter. The color, it doesn't either. What matter is, whether, or not, they were coated in gum? Like the peach, and grey ones?
Because I seriously hope that's not a, “throughout the ages thing” because, nothing is as terrible as reaching under a desk to itch your knee and touching someone's old chewing gum!
Putting your gum under your desk is:
An act of true evil!
An example of the true pinnacle of all atrocities!
As well as, a thunderous offence to all life!
I think it should be a federal offence—a life sentence—a crime! "911... Whats your emergency?"
Sure, there are petty criminals out there, but the big ones—the real monstrous criminals—are the same kids who put gum under their desks! I honestly think someone should do a study, there is bound to be a correlation!
I can see the head line now: "Kids Who Put Their Gum Under Desks: 57% More Likely to Commit Crime!"
If you happen to be the kind of person who, puts their chewed gum, under the desks, I leave you with a few words of wisdom:
"THROW YOUR GUM IN THE TRASH! STOP PUTTING IT UNDER DESKS!" Followed by, "The trash can is like three feet away!"