Broken Pattern

    Teacher,
Did you ever, implore    That a student
                            Be smarter
                                Than you?
That despite, lack of years
    He has made up for it, through scholastics?

         But No,                        But of course!
Then why the fuck are            ME: i am,
    we at school?                                 that
                                                           teacher.

    I could write for hours about how much the new OPUS cards suck. Seriously, give me any amount of time and I can fill it up. I’ll tell you the story of how I finally got mine. It ends with me, literally dripping with sweat, as I ride the bus home, staring at a beaut, one letter short of beauty, in a beautiful yellow dress. Here’s how it began:
    The Friday before Labor Day I had gotten my brother to promise to drive me to get the horrid card. As far as I knew, if I wanted to continue buying fare at a reduced, student rate I had to stand in line and get it. Come Monday, the ride has fallen through and after a quick drop at good ol’ Dawson college I’m waiting in line at 2020 University having just been dropped off by my mother.
    Two and a half hours later I’m staring at the single cashier work the hundreds of sheep as less than half of the photo booths have workers in them. Not only is the city forcing 3 million people to stand in line, I thought, they’re forcing them to wait because they’re too cheap to get the full service required to make the switch sensible. I was amused when the photographer asked me to smile.
    Leaving school, I finally ran into the oh-so-mentioned opus atm, only to find it was out of order. The future seemed dim. After the purchase of a blueberry drink at the local metro-mart, I had the necessary funds to “buy” the bus pass. And so, it seemed the journey was over.
    Only to find myself stilled crammed in a bus-full of heated zombies, asking myself why were waiting in line for change when we need more buses..reorganize those priorities. By the time I got a seat, and after being slept on for two brief moments, in walked the lady clad in yellow. As sweat dripped off my face into my sketchbook, I drew of melting ice cubes and popsicles. Depression is the plague of the 21st century.

    It’s amazing that something so delicate could turn into something so fierce. I’m talking, of course, about women. Never has man seen such wrath and anguish than that encompassed in the female body. As men, we’re used to constant beatings back and forth, suppressing the weak and glorifying the strong, however, when women enter the battle field the war changes dramatically. No longer are the feats measured in strength, but rather in secrets held. Women will happily release the deepest, darkest secrets they’ve kept buried, locked away inside their mind. In one swift sentence, they can destroy a year’s worth of work, or a lifetime of sanity.

    Women and casinos are one in the same. You start by bringing your friend along, to watch your back and make sure you don’t spend, or lose, all your chips. The outside is always inviting, bright lights and decor galore, but once you enter, the fragile welcoming becomes a light show, and try as you may, there’s no turning back. Quickly, you scan every playable table, any game where you think you may have the upper hand, ever knowing that the casino will win in the end. You may win a few, but you’ll lose more, but as long as you have your chips you can play again. That is, until you rid your pockets of all your belongings, turn to see your friend has left you long ago, as you’re forced to walk out of the casino, saddened and shamed. As you turn back to say one last goodbye, the bright lights tease you once more as men walk in and out carrying suitcases full of bills. No mercy, no pity.