Mr. Sandman, Bring Me Some Cream

So I’ve become That Kid. You know That Kid-she really annoys you by constantly raising her hand to voice her every concern. She cannot fight the urge to pipe up, ideas splaying, soaking peers with the sticky gumbo of each wee thought classroom conversation sparks. Essentially, the teacher and That Kid wind up entering into their own private dialogue during the time an array of other folks could be contributing their intelligent input, far surpassing the miniscule extension of merit founded in the ceaseless banter of That Kid. Now the question becomes: if I recognize my increasingly lame role as That Kid, why, then, do I play into a part so loathsome? Concrete answer: me sleepy. Last semester, I began to realize very succinctly that anything that isn’t interactive does not sustain my attention. Moreover, actually, I require interactivity simply to remain astir. Therefore, lecture-style classes, particularly large ones, propel me into deep slumber faster than a tranquilizer dart on the tranquilizer dartiest day of the tranquilizer dartiest year. For that matter, so do movies put me to sleep in any setting, be they enhanced by the week audio stylings of a slide projector’s cassette companion or by the surround sound in ample, prosperous theatres. Case and point: on a Canadian Studies field trip in November, I fell asleep during an IMAX screening of some especially vocal, rambunctious tigers in the raw. All hahas aside, to fully experience a movie, I necessitate the aid of stiffening agents and tiny, precise joists to prop open my eyelids as I fear the alternative, toppling floorward, fighting a losing battle with shut-eye. Today was the first day that marked my staying awake through a movie in a wide and starry expanse of the space-time continuum, but that degree of operation was not without the help of all three of my triplet friends: Joe, Joe and Joe. Yes, coffee has indeed become a staple of my diet. In fact, it has become the fuel for my fire. It has become the backbone of my existence. It has become the cream in my coff…ooo, and it has hastened my speed in speaking before first thinking, thus becoming my impediment in not abusing cliches. And, honestly, I don’t even have a refined enough palate not to drown my coffee in milk and sugar. Although I am getting better, I am awfully American about my caffeine consumption, adding but a few drops of civilian rocket fuel to my steeping mug of otherwise volatilely syrupy milk foam. As I grow asymptotically close to permanent weariness, however, the ratio exponentially favors the legal stimulant. Come the weekends, though, I do not drink coffee. By the time the weeks’ ends approach, I can hardly remain alert to conjure up images of raging parties let alone try not to naturally pass out during them. But I have a rationale in not tackling the Green Mountain for artificial wakefulness come Friday night. I reckon that with no curriculum to pound, there is no definite need to pollute my fatigued physique, and thus, I opt for the talent to hallucinate the night away, substance free. Besides, coffee doesn’t even always do its thang. Whenever situations entail passivity on my part, be I hopped up on beverage or not, I still tumble into the open arms of R.E.M. I am powerless against the Sandman, so I kid you not when I claim that all activities must demand collective participation for me to remain conscious. Unsurprisingly, then,, come school daze, I must talk up a wicked maelstrom of irritants in order to stave off blatantly conking out. Now, I distinctly sense myself annoying the arfing hell out of my classmates-and me. Actually, damn, I don’t think it too liberal to venture to guess that I untickle even my teachers’ fancies. But I vow, UVMissaries, that I’m not creepily reveling in my That Kiddom; I’m just trying to stay awake. So if you have class with me and you’re not too repulsed by my desperate acts of verbosity, be a pal and whack me when you see my head hit the desk, would you?