School Supplies and an Empty Notebook.

It's safe to say I was never really a fan of school.

There are two slight exceptions to that statement, one of which being the first week or so of every year.  For some reason, one that I attribute to brief psychotic episodes, I was up and raring to go bright and early for the first week.  Every day I would wake up with plenty of time to spare, and typically get to either school itself or the bus stop very early.  I would stuff my backpack with excitement and adventure, then head off to an institute of learning, all bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to ace every test those cool new teachers threw at me.

The second week, it took my Mom 30 minutes at least to get my lazy ass out of bed.  I would stall, then trudge to the bus stop, scowling the whole way, indignant at being awoken before lunchtime.  My backpack was heavier, my old uncool teachers were ants to be squashed beneath my shoe, and every other person besides me and my friends sucked.  This was the type of malign that even a Star Crunch couldn't quell.

The other exception to my Hating Of School was my youth.  In Kindergarten and the beginning of Elementary school, you look forward to the day.  Everything is new, and you are fawned over when succeeding in learning.  You spelled "Forest"?  You, my friend, get a gold star.

A gold star!  How totally boss was a gold star?  You had the chart, and right next to your name, right there for everyone to see, was a shiny small not-worth-money-but-worth-more-than-real-gold gold star.  And it was all yours.  Why?  Because you did a Good Job.

Good Jobs were praised.  You felt good all over.  Hell, you felt good enough to share your paste with whoever might have a spoon handy.

Then you moved on to 1st grade.  During your time in 1st to 3rd or so grades, that Good Job feeling remained, but for some reason it seemed to wain somewhat.  You were happy, and you were praised, but not in that "Holy Crap You Are The Smartest Kid Ever" voice the teacher used.  Instead, these new teachers used the "Good work, but that's to be expected" voice.  There is an enormous difference here.

Then, in 4th grade, you realize you are doing Work.  You're not playing, or napping, or getting gold stars.  You're being graded.  You're doing something right, or you're doing it wrong.  There's no more, "Almost, but it's pronounced Spah-Get-Tee".   It's now, "Wrong.  Do it again, but this time, get it right or I use the text book to paper cut your face, bitch."

Harsh?  Maybe.  But also completely true.

So I didn't like school.  You know what I did like?  School supplies.  Ah!  The blog title begins to pay off, no?

The best part of school starting was going to get the new school supplies.  New clothes?  Whatever.  New shoes?  My old ones were fine.  New haircut?  Mom never did let me get the Mr. T mohawk.  But new notebooks?  New pads of paper?  New and different kinds of pens?  NEW TRAPPER KEEPER??  Cha-ching!!

I loved getting this stuff.  Early on, it was custom Trapper Keepers.  Dukes of Hazzard, Knight Rider, etc.  Then, I moved on to the blank ones and never looked back.  Why?  You could write stuff on them, therefore making the Trapper Keeper more personal to you than your own identity.

"How it that possible?" You ask with the look of passion on your face and the devil in your eyes.  Simple.  It's because it WAS your identity.  Every single piece of paper you received went into that thing.  Sure, folders held stuff too, but by the end of the school year that binder was filled so thick Geraldo could have done a special on it.  Your name was written on it twenty times in twenty different fonts.  There were pictures of lightsabers and bugs and weird faces and band names and friend's signatures and crude words scribbled out.  It was personal.  It was life.

That new pen with the four different pen colors?  You tell me you didn't love that thing like you loved your pet and I'll tell you to shut your whore mouth before God punishes you for such blasphemy.

That new mini-sack-o'-pencils?  How many of those did you loose in life-or-death Pencil Fights?  You would plead with your mother for thicker pencils.  Sure they cost more, but how else were you supposed to contend with Johnny Finkleheimerski when he was strutting around, wielding his Black Knight?

I actually got moved to the front of the bus once for pencil fighting.  That was a fun morning.

Now, as much as I loved those supplies, my favorite is and always has been the Brand New Notebook.  Whether it be one of those black and white covered journals, or one with the metal rings.  Wide ruled or college ruled.  None of it mattered.

To me, there is nothing more inviting and intriguing than an empty notebook.  It's just sitting there, waiting for you to have your way with it.  Ranging from small doodles to personal thoughts to school assignments you are planning to half ass your way through, there is some kind of magic intrinsic in it's design.  You stare at it, wondering what will come out as you put pen to page.

I have one of those journals right now, sitting in my room.  I bought it a few weeks ago, and as of yet it only has two entries in it.  One of them is about ball scratching.  I might post it sometime.  It only has two entries, but for me, that's not the point.  The point is, what it might contain.  What I might decide to put in there.  The possibilities are endless.

Hell, I might someday write the Great American Blog within those pages.

Because this one is definitely not it.