When I was in seventh grade, my friend Kelsey and I loved Sharpies. Between us, we had every color under the rainbow—and then some! Oh, we had the usual ones like blue, red, and black, but then there were the super-ninja ultra-tastic colors! Kiwi, magenta, rain shower, boysenberry, dandelion, and lilac sent us into giggle fits so profound that we once were asked to leave class and stand in the hallway until we had resolved ourselves to somber schoolwork.
Sharpie covered everything in seventh grade. We scribbled notes to each other, dotted the desks, drew in the flyleaves of our books, and highlighted our neighbors’ hair. Kelsey and I were joint queens of Sharpisia, each color having a different place in the royal court or in society. Whenever we bored of the subject matter, we neglected the teacher’s lecture and gaily proceeded to coat our binders with multiple layers of the stuff. When we got tired of one color, another appeared, still sticky to our hands on the plastic, at the price of another fruitless class period. Sharpie was the all-purpose tool. Notes, letters, illustrations, projects—Sharpies showed their worth in all of them. The mighty Sharpie could even be used as a hammer.
Not that we didn’t learn anything in classes. We learned, as every student does in seventh grade, that Davy Crockett died at the Alamo, pi equals 3.14, and what the word “puberty” really means. As funny as it may sound, getting in trouble with Kelsey for covering each other’s arms with Sharpie in the back of the class is, to this day long after graduation, one of my favorite memories. Getting in trouble that time was actually worth it.
Just a little mucking about with the prompt a prof gave us. I ran out of time when I wrote this; it’s nothing too serious, although it could be. Suggestions?