The "homework feeling." That’s what I’ve got.
It started when I was a kid. It would be after school, and I was finally at home. The sense of relief was huge, because I hated school. Every school day was something to survive – forget about excelling.
Not that I attended schools that were innately dangerous, mind you. In fact, my Ma made sure, humble means or no, that I went to private, reputable institutions. But my antipathy was unconditional. I have the test scores to prove it.
Having finished a day of school there still remained, however, a most evil of responsibilities: that heinous curse, homework.
It haunted me every hour I didn’t do it. Whether I was watching You Can’t Do That On Television, or making my culinary invention – Sweet, Scrambled Pancakes* – or writing cry-for-help puppet shows, there was always that voice in the back of my mind reminding me in a chiding tone that I had homework.
I pretty much never did homework. No amount of privileges revoked, respect lost, or threats of future failure could convince me to do a sheet of fractions. Heck, the homework could have been to sit in a chair and clap twice – I would have found a way to avoid doing it.
To this day, most any time I’m not actively doing something responsible and productive, I feel guilty, or like I’m forgetting something important and, as a result, my life will be sent into a furious, downward spiral. I know it’s neurotic, but all it takes is two hours of enjoying listening to music and daydreaming for me to worry that I’ll be living in a rotted cardboard box by Tuesday.
