The word that pops forthwith into my mind is "stuffy," and in this one adjective I find the focal point of my review. This locker is, above all, stuffy. Stuffy, cramped, and, with each breath I exhale, increasingly sultry. There's barely enough room in here for my backpack and me, and I'm the ninth-shortest boy in our grade. It's as if the designer never even bothered to step inside the locker himself. And how very typical of our aesthetic-crazy culture to worry more about the color of a locker's door than the invention of a small emergency button that alerts authorities to my presence.
I'm definitely standing in food, but of what nature and biological and/or chemical construction I am unsure. By scent alone, I'm tempted to venture a guess toward bananas, or the more exotic passion fruit (also known as the purple granadilla!), but the texture and viscosity beneath my shoes suggests something that more closely resembles an olde-timey Christmas pudding. The sound of the food mass sliding alongside my light-up Skechers has entirely squelched my appetite, though I know that as night hastens forth I will have to consume something to maintain my strength. Luckily, I always keep emergency Red Vines in my pencil case.
From the sound of War's "Low Rider" reverberating against my tin suite, I sense that the custodial staff has commandeered the intercom for their nightly routine. The repetitive wahs of the horns make an ideal accompaniment for the garish and downright illegal amount of Carmen Electra photos this boy has taped to the sides of his locker. I didn't even know people still wore suspenders. Or glass heels. Such tackiness does not sit well with me.
From the precarious stack of uncovered textbooks on the shelf above my head, I have deducted that this locker's owner isn't exactly a young Nikola Tesla. Reaching up to grab a book, I found a yellow folder labeled "World History" that was filled with lewd drawings of Mr. Leeman and some farm animals. I'm usually a proponent for showcasing the work of local artists, but this certainly did little to improve my visit. And the shading on the donkeys was phoned-in at best.
Boy, I am so, so glad I spent the extra few dollars to get glow-in-the-dark bands on my calculator watch.
This locker is stuffy in all ways—not just physically and environmentally, but also intellectually, emotionally, dare I say spiritually? I feel a definite waning of my mental curiosity, my natural drive to seek out and explore new peoples and worlds, and then brutally critique them. But will this chewed-gum laden prism of unsigned detention notices truly be my end-all? Have the forces of evil and cerebral mediocrity finally triumphed in their war against adolescent highbrowism?
No! No, I must push on. For the sake of those who come after me, it's crucial I finish my work. According to my watch, it's just past eight p.m., and I've hardly even began to delve into the subtle nuances of my review. Let us move to the door, touch its sharp, uninviting corners, and...Ah, yes, I see now that I do actually have access to the handle mechanism on the inside of the door. But I'm guessing, from the many design flaws I've encountered thus far, that it won't...oh, nope, it works. Yep, the door just opened. Yep. Yep.
Goshdarnit.
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