Dizzy Nerdorama

I love going to class. I love saying “I’m going to class.” I’ve loved it ever since University, when I used to tear into the new course listings every quarter in a manner not dissimilar to the way I salivate over the menu at Greenwood’s whenever I visit my brother in Atlanta. I’ve always had a strong penchant for situations where people in positions of authority are legally obligated to be nice to me, but even my raging case of Teacher’s Pet Syndrome is but a pebble on the vast, pebble-strewn beach of reasons why I love going to class.

I love all of the trappings. The syllabi. The lists. The notes. The new pen that glides across the pages of a dazzlingly empty notebook, which have both been purchased mere hours before during a giddy stationery-shop spree. I love the stationery shop, but I don’t often buy anything in it because I’m self-flagellating about (pretty much everything, including) spending money on items that do not directly contribute to my survival. But if there’s a class…a shiny, new, desk-and-eraserboard class…the shelves of notebooks are laid out before me like tantalizing, necessary candy, dripping vibrant colors and patterns all over my solar plexus and drawing me into the world of infinite, borderless possibility. It doesn’t matter that, within three months’ time, the notebook will join its psychedelically-painted brethren in the graveyard of unfinished business at the bottom of my bookshelf while I work through another bout of self-loathing. No. That isn’t even a thought right now. All that matters are the college-ruled stars in my eyes and the brilliant, beautiful words that I haven’t yet written, but just know that this time I will. Possibility never looks tarnished.

I love knowing things I didn't know a half an hour ago. I love going back over what I've written and figuring out how I can apply it and revelling in its sense of promise. It's pure raw potential, a new horizon, momentarily breaking free from a self-imposed prison of boredom and doubt. I love listening when somebody knows something that I want to know. I love feeling like I'm being told something useful, a phenomenon that occurs increasingly rarely in my everyday life. I love a new book, the weight of it in my hands, the way I just want to consume it all at once like a mouthful of steak and mashed potatoes.

I hate homework, though.