Well, sorry about those ten days of nothing.  No one's really home to read this anyway.  In fact, I'm leaving in two hours myself.  Where to?  Europe, basically. For a month.  A different city every week.  I think the order is Athens, Rome, Florence, and Paris.  So, I'm excited.  I'll probably come back a lot cooler than I am now.  Or I may not come back at all and just hang out with my foreign boyfriend and camp out at the Louvre for the rest of my life.  Also, I'm going with my friends Hilary, Zoe, and Ari.  Although I consider these three people to be my best friends of all time, they refer to me as 'the dog'.  In their free time they enjoy pinning me down to the floor and stuffing Little Debbies into my mouth.  The only thing I really regret about this trip so far is the fact that I read the Da Vinci Code.  Now I'm going to instinctly prance around Europe in search of The Holy Grail and slick my hair into that horrific Tom Hanks number.  If the albino doesn't kill me, one of my roommates will.

Anyway, I have to finish packing.  I tend to procrastinate.  Hopefully this summer will do what last summer did for me.  And hopefully I'll come back from this place with the mojo I initially lost at Camp Fernwood. 

Enjoy this month,

Daryl.

Finals

 

Well, so ends the last Tuesday of my sophomore year in high school.  I’ve always hated Tuesdays.  Mondays were obvious downers, but Tuesdays were a little more inconspicuous about it.  Tuesdays just never really mattered.  Like the middle child.  Monday is the annoying immature younger sibling, cranky from not getting enough sleep the night before.  Friday is the fabulous older sibling that does everything right, because older siblings are better than you and mommy loves us more.  Wednesday and Thursday get rounded up –they’re second best, but at least they aren’t kid sister Tuesday, middle-child Tuesday, the forgotten sibling we obliviously left at the mall yet again.  Tuesdays are just lame.  Even if we all went on a family vacation and left Tuesday at home, it probably wouldn’t even be creative enough to pull a Home Alone 4 and find clever ways of ruining the lives of escaped convicts while learning valuable life lessons at the same time.  It would probably just spend the whole week biting its toenails and preserving the clippings it didn’t swallow in some air-tight jar it stores in the back of its closet.  You know, on the shelf behind the row of moldy, malignant, bloodthirsty sweater vests. 

 

The last week of school is always the hardest.  Oh- wait, sorry.  My bad.  The last week of school is always the hardest in New Jersey.  See, we’re the only kids still in school right now.  If I still lived in Pennsylvania, this entry would probably be about a water park or the beach or, I don’t know, Coldstone.  But because Millburn sucks so horribly and because we used up all of our snow days this year, all I can really ramble about are finals.  It’s the third to last week of June, prettiest month of the year June, and I must spend it cooped up in my room memorizing every wretched detail of the Civil War.  I mean, I enjoyed learning about the Civil War.  But that doesn’t mean I want it force-fed into my mind when I could be outside living my life and being genuinely happy for a change.  Finals are hard because the week before them, no matter what you are doing, you are wasting time.  When you’re outside living, you think about how you should be studying.  When you’re inside studying, you’re looking out the window, marveling at all the colors swaying in the summer breeze and you can hear the wind as it whispers “Nanananana it’s still the fourth marking period!”  But no one cares that it’s still the fourth marking period, not even the teachers.  So that’s why finals were invented.  To remind us that we do not yet deserve the natural beauties in life.  Ah ah, not yet, nah ah, not until we fill out this scantron sheet over here, write this essay over there, have yet another mental breakdown because the proctor keeps walking around, pounding her wretched high heals against the fake-marble floor to the rhythm of the throbbing, pulsating head ache in your mind, the one preventing you from making a decision between a, b, c, or d.  And isn’t it strange to think, isn’t it sad to think, isn’t it disturbing to think that a single letter can matter so much us, can set a path for us, can open doors for us, when I know I could have been just as happy with an open window.

 

At least I know that after Friday, school is history for two wonderful months.  Sure, we have summer reading, but I like reading.  I’ve always liked reading.  I like analyzing what I read and writing about what I read.  Want to know what I don’t like?  Numbers.  But it’s summertime, it’s almost summertime, it’s practically summertime, and summertime, unlike any other time, won’t get counted into my grade point average.  

The Trick is to Walk Slow

So, I lost the election.  I lost with dignity, though.  When they made the announcement on the loudspeaker and my name wasn’t called, I mouthed a quiet “Fuck” and then it was all in the past.  Well, it was all in the past in my mind.  See, the problem with publicly losing something is that other people don’t forget about it.  In that quiet little eighth period Spanish class, I lost the class election for vice president, and that was all.  Then, THEN, I walked out of that classroom and into the mainstream hallway of the rest of the student population.  I was walking down that hallway, and you could tell the ones that knew who I was were just waiting for me to cry.  That bothered me, so I began to walk faster, which directly resulted in more air blowing into my face.  I still felt like I was being watched. Feeling gawky and awkward, I walked even faster and gusts of dry hallway air started blowing into my eyes.  This was a horrible mistake.  I slowed down, but it was too late.  I began to blink repeatedly, so fast that you wouldn’t even know my eyes were opening.  I tried, really, I tried, but my efforts fell to crap.  My goddamned bloodshot eyes began to water.  “Are those…tears?” an acquaintance asked, stopping to put a hand on my shoulder, “Are you alright?  You’ll be alright.  There’s always next year.”

 

“No, these are not tears,” I replied defensively, “My eyes are just irritated.”

 

“Daryl, don’t be afraid of your emotions.  We all feel for you.”

 

“No, seriously. I wasn’t crying.  There’s just something in my eye.”

 

“Aww, you’re even using the ‘something in my eye’ line.  You don’t have to cover-up, Dar. Would you like a tissue?  A visit to the guidance counselor?  A hug?”

 

Upon trying to cuddle with me, I tore away.  “Stop touching me, I’m happy.”

 

“But you’re crying.  See guys?  Daryl’s crying.”

 

Then I asked a nearby pothead if I could borrow his Visine and headed off toward my locker.

Vote for Me and I’ll Give You My Pet Dog

 

Tomorrow is class officer elections.  Usually, I probably wouldn’t give a flying rat’s ass when the election was or even who was running in it, but this election is special.  You can only guess as to why it’s special.  I’m just the Vice President type, you know?  Class prez gets assassinated, and I gotchyo back.  Other than that, the VP doesn’t really do much of anything except help decorate for homecoming and think of creative ways to raise money for prom.  I was VP freshman year and all we came up with were Millburn Nalgenes.  Buy one bulletproof water bottle to support the freshmen class! Only ten bucks each!  Please? Do it? For me?

 

Maybe freshman year was just a fake.  A trainer bra year.  Those Limited Too bras the girls used to wear in third grade with the sequined puppy dogs stitched into the parts where the hypothetical boobs were supposed to be.  The freshmen are simply the lost age group.  Sure, they’ve got their own cute little government hanging up their teeny eensy weensy wittle fliers.  But your prom is three years away and basically nobody currently in our school, not anyone except the select dumbasses that won’t graduate and your own class, will be attending it.  The only reason they have a freshmen student government is to let everyone know that the freshmen are real live existing people in the school.  Because that’s what the freshman government did last year.  And that’s all I did last year.  Exist.  And sell approximately three bullet proof water bottles, two having been purchased by my own mother.

 

But let’s forget about all that.  I’m a sophomore now.  I do sophomore things.  I used to think it was called softmores, but there ain’t nothing soft about it.  I’m PH soph.  But even that doesn’t matter anymore.  I’m only a sophomore for another eleven days.  Then it’s on to the big leagues, three hundred some odd walking dead people, hanging around with AP poles stuck up their scrawny little asses, writing essays, applying for internships, and driving to 711 at the exact same time.  I’ll be a junior next year, so I might as well be vice president of the rest of them.  Especially if I want to succeed in my plan to achieve universal domination by the time I’m twenty-six and three quarters.

 

You’d think it would be hard to convince three hundred something people to check off your name on the ballot sheet.  I mean, these are sixteen year old kids we’re talking about.  They’ve got crazy opinions, those kids.  Stubborn as hell.  When you push one of their buttons, they ramble on for minutes at a time, telling you what they think, how they feel, even when you repeatedly tell them to shut up because, Jesus, nobody cares.  I mean, how could you possibly convince an entire class of intellectual teenaged kids to vote for you?  How could you possibly accomplish such a thing without taking military action or promising a giant Starbucks in the middle of the cafeteria and eternal world peace?

 

All you have to do is feed them. 

 

Last year I voted for Eric Rubin, not just because he’s going to be my boss someday, but mainly because he gave me a jelly doughnut minutes before I walked into homeroom to fill out the ballot sheet.  I was walking to my homeroom and he just handed it to me.  Actually, he said “I’ll give you this doughnut if you can promise me your vote.”  So then I said, “Heck yes,” and the doughnut was mine.  Minutes later, upon entering my homeroom, I realized that I already told Catherine I’d vote for her in exchange for an airhead, and Will if he gave me one of his fun size snickers.  Some creep whose named will be withheld asked for my vote in exchange for his virginity, but I politely told him that I had a small can of tear gas in my binder.  In the end, I chose Eric Rubin because I liked that his platform focused on money for internal improvements, a higher tariff, and the abolishment of slavery.  Also, his doughnut was pretty damn good. 

 

I’m not here to ridicule sixteen year olds.  I am one.  I’m just here to tell it like it is.  And what it is is bribery.  Everyone knows it, everyone, the candidates and the voters.  But nobody cares.  Last year, when I didn’t run for anything, I woke up twenty minutes too early out of sheer excitement, humming Disney tunes as I opened up my windows and the birds chirped, rushing downstairs to quickly eat my Reeses Puffs like it was Christmas morning. And it practically was Christmas morning, only it was Election Day, and instead of presents I would be receiving mounds and mounds of ‘vote for me’ sugary goodness.  In honor of the occasion this year, I went to Costco and purchased 150 miniature packs of gum.  I have to hand them out and say “Stick with Seitchik.” Like a stick of gum.  Get it?  It’s funny.  Laugh.

 

There’s only one other known way to obtain votes from your class.  Murder one fourth of the rainforest and turn it into giant posters that would be plastered over every free space of hallway in the school.  There are so many posters posted, that poster-posting styles have even been developed.  First you’ve got your millions of eight by eleven ‘VOTE FOR SALLY’ numbers.  Those posters are usually crappily taped to the wall since there are so many of them.  Often times, they get stuck to your feet and easily-amused people may tape them to the back of your shirt.  Then there are those eight by eleven posters that have a million words on them, all about the budgets for the prom and the promises the candidate is making.  These posters are neatly taped to the wall since there are about three of them and they contain words like ‘transaction’.  Needless to say, nobody reads those.  Instead they divert their attention to the massive posters right next to them that have incredibly strained rhyming slogans.  These are the standard types of posters and then there are my posters.  I have about sixteen posters.  Twelve of them say ‘Vote Daryl for Vice President Class of ’08.  The other four are the result of about an hour of brainstorming.  And when I say brainstorming I mean thinking of words that rhyme with my name.  Here’s what I came up with:

 

             Don’t be a Barrel, vote for Daryl.

 

You should pick

Seitchik.

 

Upon realizing that my name sucks, I proceeded to do whatever the hell I wanted.

 

Daryl puts the ice in vice. *insert picture of 50 cent wearing a diamond-studded medallion.*

 

Daryl doesn’t have lice.  Vote her for vice.

 

Daryl doesn’t do anabolic steroids.  Vote for her.

 

Daryl can’t help you save 15% or more on car insurance, but she’s still pretty cool.

 

Even my mom thought of one.  I thought it was decent until I realized that no one in my generation besides unfortunate people named Daryl know who Daryl Hall and John Oates is.  Her slogan was “Daryl’s Hall and John Votes.”  But who the hell is John?

 

There’s not much else to a student council election.  The people vote, they announce the winners on Friday, the winner goes home and thinks up fundraiser ideas, and the loser loses all of his friends and gets thrown blindfolded into a slimy ditch off of route 10.  Either that or he just shrugs and enjoys his Friday afternoon.  And we all know what the fundraiser’s going to turn out to be anyway.  A bake sale.  Because the thing is, all you really have to do is feed them.

I’ve made a decision.  I’m not sure whether or not it’s actually a good decision, but at least I’ve made one.  That’s more than I can say for any other choice I’ve had to make recently.  Usually I settle for the middle, find a way to balance things out.  Nuh uh.  Na ah.  Time to grab life by the horns, Daryl, take the initiative, and other inspiring clichés.  Here’s what I’m going to do.  I’m going to write in this thing every other day.  Every other day, even if I have absolutely nothing important going on in my mind and the only reason I’d even be writing in the first place is to hear my fingers clatter on the keyboard.  Or to get my ‘voice’ back.  Apparently that’s what writers are supposed to develop.  Their ‘voices’ and their ‘styles’.  This is my voice, I suppose.  The thing is, though, I don’t sound like this in real life.  You’d have to break off every other sentence with a seven-second awkward ‘ummm’ and insert a ‘like’ in between every four or so words in order for this to be my real life voice.  One time I heard myself talking on a home video and it was painful.  I bet it would be painful for you too. Really.  Try it sometime.  Because the truth is we’re all living in an unfathomable lie.  I’ve spent the majority of my life thinking I had this really deep, sultry voice.  I also thought I was taller and faster than everyone and that I was a generally intellectual human being.  And then I saw myself on tape.  At first glance, I mistook the scene for just another lame episode of The Angry Beavers.  Maybe even a re-run of another lame episode of The Angry Beavers.  That’s what I thought up until I took another look and realized, to my utter horror, that there was no beaver in that television.  No, no.  That buck-toothed midget thing in there?  Reciting her torah portion for the entire congregation in her nasal munchkin voice?  That, kids, would be yours truly. 

 

Now you all know the real reason I want to be a writer when I grow up.  I go around telling people it’s my passion and proudly recite quotes by Thoreau and Emerson, and then I scuttle off into my little corner and think about my real future, which basically involves becoming a Tibetan monk in a far, faraway land.  So that, like, I’ll never have to speak again.  I’ll just live in my Tibetan village, doing monk things, hanging with my monk friends…not talking.  It’s really a lot more fun than you’d think.  We can play tetherball and stuff.  And don’t forget about the staring contests.  Those are wild. 

 

I guess I could also be ashamed of my real life voice because I’m from Philadelphia.  No one actually knows or cares that I’m from Philadelphia except all the kids I know from New Jersey.  See, New Jerseysians have it embedded into their thick skulls that kids from Philadelphia have Philadelphian accents.  Have you heard of this accent?  Have you heard it in action?  Here is where it’s in action, right here: Laren.  There.  That is the only word in the history of this godforsaken universe that can fall under the category of ‘Philadelphian Accent.’  You say Lauren, we say Laren.  I don’t know if I can handle the intensity of such an outrageous culture clash.  

 

But we can get past all that.  All we have to do is move on and accept the fact that in person I sound like a whining eleven year old boy.  I mean, right now I sound normal, conversational.  I will admit, I just read a page of Catcher in the Rye.  I mentioned this only because it’s relevant to the way I’ve been writing tonight.  Catcher in the Rye is the garlic all of books.  I could read one page of that book and proceed to speak and smell like Holden Caulfield for the rest of the following week.  There’s even a twinge of Holden in my writing right now.  However, I need to say ‘phony’ in order to be a true Holden Caulfield impersonator.  Phony phony phony.  Alright, I’m set.

 

I’m quite exhausted right now since it is nearly two in the morning and I should have gone to bed earlier because I have a driving lesson tomorrow.  That’s right, I’ll be driving. I’ll be ruler of the road, parallel parker extraordinaire, soaring down Millburn Ave. at the respectable speed of ninety miles per three seconds.  Lock up your children and warn the others before it’s too late. 

 

Have an excellent weekend,

 

Daryl.