It’s 7:25, and you stroll into homeroom. As you sit down, your stomach growls and your head throbs. Working off little sleep and no food just to be in an institutionalized hell until 2:10 doesn’t exactly make any sane person happy, does it? As your mind whirls in glorious thoughts of bacon and Swedish tempur-pedic mattresses, fellow classmates fill in around you. They suffer the same fate and deal with the same nonsense. However, something keeps everyone afloat just long enough to maintain sanity, just long enough to put the sharp object down and step away: The new edition of Downingtown East’s Off the Record!
The intoxicating effects of the school’s paper wipe away pain and worries. As quickly as you can, you digest the informative and well-written articles like a luscious bag of Swedish fish. You can’t get enough of the two-fold glory. Your peers do the same; some even become violent in lust. They fight for the last newspaper and some die for it. Hastily, you shove the paper in your backpack and then run to the bathroom. Like a drug fiend you sit in a stall and take in the euphoric inducing greatness. However, a chilling fact presents itself: Most of the writers are women. Odd, you say to yourself. How could such amazing use of the prose be the result of a female?
Suddenly, you are snapped out of your daydream by the bell for first period. You see people filing out the door and pass the wastebaskets. In it, you notice the result of nine to eleven years of education wrapped up into a two-fold piece of defecation.
