I, a sixteen year old human, was confronted today by the most daunting of tasks: dropping off lunch money to my school. See, for over ten years I have been participating in the ritualistic dropping off of lunch money, and yet it remains one of the most terrifying things I encounter. A check for one-hundred dollars clenched in my fist, I wander to the front office, seeking the location to pay for my chicken nuggets and tater tots, only to be told by the front-desk lady (whose name I still donât know, despite being a fucking junior), that this is not, in fact where I drop off my lunch money. No, there is apparently an office in the lunch room??? And thus, I wander to the lunch room and seek out an office. I find a door and hesitantly open it, to see a hallway with more fucking doors. I knock on the first door and it is opened my an old lady. I ask her how to pay and she tells me to go back into the lunch room, put my check in a credit card sized yellow envelope, write my name and the words âlunch moneyâ, and slide it through a mail slot leading into a basket in her office. I do as she tells me, only to be hit with strangest sense of deja vu. As I walk to my first period, hands shaking, wondering if they will put the money into the account by lunch time (god, the agony of hearing âlow balanceâ stays with a person for hours), I realize: I have done this before. How fucking stupid am I? I canât even remember how to pay for my goddamn lunch. And yet, staring forward at my future I see no light; there is no end to this torment. I know next year I will repeat this process of being a stupid fucktard. And I know that in college I will likely walk into a lunch room at some point unable to remember if they take debit cards. And yet, I am determined. I will eat this nasty cafeteria food and pay for it with my dignity and self-respect. I will not make my own lunch.
areudirty
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
jacobvanloon
blakekathryn
dededos
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
