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The Griffin

Surviving restroom treks: clipboard speaks out

Dorrie Geang, staff writer

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Dear diary,
They told me that I’d be a delicate asset, cherished by every student for years to come. Their witty deception has zapped me.
Huffs and puffs and exasperated exhales create an aura around me. Stomps and eye rolls approach me, as if this passive-aggressive form of protest could culminate the power to take me away.
At first I was held tightly, firmly grasped like a young executive shaking the hand of a potential boss.        Now I hang limp, dangled between the thumb and index finger as if they’re afraid to touch me.Sometimes, I’m tucked under a smelly teenage armpit. It’s nothing short of repulsive.
Others have told me I had it good. I’m pink and hey, that’s a nice color. But I reside in 303. Sometimes I peer down the hall and sneak a glance at my orange-adorned comrade who lives in the cool, shady part of town. “Lucky guy!” On this side the students are sweatier. Stench, slipperiness and swelter overtake me every afternoon.
Smacked down hard against the unforgiving floor. Haphazardly tossed onto the paper towel rack. Teetering back and forth atop the stall, precariously positioned at best. Where will I fall next?
Scratches and scars decorate my exterior. I don’t blame anyone. Battle wounds are part of the job description.
Sometimes, late at night, I think about the pen that used to accompany me. What a good fellow, always loyal. One day he disappeared. He could have been displaced, or maybe stolen. I hear pens are a hot commodity. But maybe he left willingly. Perhaps my love for him was unrequited.
Maybe that’s why no one writes on me anymore?
My pages have seen better days. Watermarks scale my edges, creases outline my borders like hair that’s crimped for prom. Who knows if I’ll even make it ‘til prom?
When I reflect on my life thus far, I can move past the incessant drops. I don’t even mind being disliked, I’ve always identified as more of an introvert anyway.
But the thing that erodes my self-dignity is the incessant proliferation of germs. They coat and cover me, trying to extinguish my flamboyant, pink shine. I can’t count how many times I have narrowly missed an encounter with the flushing machine.
It’s all very cyclic. I’m on 50 first dates, but the dates are arduous and unpleasant. I’m sure next year I’ll join the storage rooms filled with plans for the satellite cafeteria, homework grades and BCPS card scanners.

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