Excuse me; I've Lost my Childhood

I lethargically trundled into English class, feeling slightly less alive after realising I hadn't eaten for 14 hours, had just been mildly concussed by the enormous confusion which is Modern History and intellectually numbed by the notion of a four page monologue to be memorized in forty eight hours. To add a magnificently unripe cherry to the top of the cake, I was immediately lectured about the impending perils of the dreaded HSC course, that I am part of a generation which is our only hope for the future of the earth and to enjoy my freedom while I can.

I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood you, sir, you must have mistaken the word 'freedom' to mean 'uncontrollable business, demoralizing tediousness, social alienation and a severe case of scratching-my-ass-will-have-to-wait-until-I've-finished-my-life disease.' Jesus.

Yes I concede we are 'the future', but unless my brain's time scale has shifted, the future isn't happening right now is it? So would you kindly leave me be until such time as I actually need to save the planet.

I mean, when you were my age, your daily ass scratching ranged from 10-15. I'm lucky to get that in a lifetime. I am the subject of constant reminiscing emanating from my father, about his romaticized notions of childhood and the liberty thereof; "Oh okay, so you jumped about in snow for eight hours a day. Oh okay, and then you ate and went to bed. Great story Dad."
Oh okay, I don't really care.

If you allegedly had that much time on your hands, why are my hands time repellants? Well I'll tell you. It's because all that time you were sodding about in the snow, you should have been at school. Like I am. Saving the planet. Because it was you and the rest of your moderately wrinkly comrades who spilt the mess I am now cleaning up. (Or at least being told to). Thats why we now have to write essays on how Shakespeare could have been more environmentally sustainable in his writing logistics. Or on why some tosspots have depleted my dad's superannuation by wanting more than their already gargantuan salaries. And you know why these tosspots are named so? Because they believe it is their right to pass the now carcass of buck to the next generation of hopeful, shining, glimmering lights. They just toss the pot to their children, so their children can toss the pot to their...oh, no wait, armageddon. Oops.

It has come to the stage when not only am I responsible for the planet, but I am responsible for it now. But miss, what if I want to pursue a career? Well is it a career in environmental sciences? No? Then it's not a career. Thesedays, I can't get anywhere without first wasting my prime years at university. After which, I will work for ten years in a junior position, youthful brain cells slowly declining, then I will be an intermediate, by which time I will have two kids and thus no brain at all. Then, by the time I'm sixty two, I will hold the top job, by which time I will be just as intellectually challenged and cynical as the man I replaced. And more worryingly, I'll probably begrudge society for having passed the buck to me, take one look at it and throw it aimlessly at the next generation; the young and brilliant chaps they are. Pity we waste all that time teaching them calculus, which they need like the pope needs condoms.

I believe we will be the first generation to lookback on our childhood and romanticize the notion that we ever had any.

But on a positive note, over the next two sweaty years, I will have completely solved the insatiable need to have my ass scratched...

By then I'll have worked it clean off.

Maestro