Dear iDiary: Inside the Mind of a 2050 Teen

 

Graphic by Sesame Gaetsaloe/The Choate News

 

 

This article was released as part of a special issue that envisions the world in 2050. All content should be treated as fictional.

 

Monday

Dear iDiary,

Today after my Java 750 class I was walking to Journalism in a Paperless World 200 when I realized I forgot a citation in my essay. My hands started to shake. Every nerve, muscle, tendon was electric as if trying to defy the suppression of my skin. It reminded me of what I read in history, about how kids used to play a game called “tug of war.” They would pull backward on a rope, feet digging into the sand, the syrupy blackness of the night air laying a delicate film over the moment. Their pruney fingers would slip and rip as one team plunged forward, and the other landed on the damp sand with chuckles. That’s what my hands were doing today: tugging and warring. Except the light crack of guffaws were replaced by my overwhelmed yelps. The sparkling, soupish air by the assaulting daylight. As my hands began to shake more vigorously, appearing on the verge of snapping off from my wrists, knuckles flying like buttons on a too-tight shirt, I finally reached Humanities and ran into the bathroom. A wall between myself and the eyes of my schoolmates, I could panic in solitude.

Convulsing in CT,

Pixel Pittman

 

Tuesday

 Dear iDiary,

Today at all-School meeting, the Administration announced that “to ensure that each student produced from this fine institution is well-equipped to face the demands of the Real World, Choate will be disabling all clubs, sports, ensembles, and non-academic organizations on campus.” They said it’s so that we can focus. After the meeting, I caught some of the reactions to the new policy: “I’m glad we’re finally focusing on what’s important at this School. I can’t believe they didn’t do away with that hobby nonsense earlier.” I’m going to be forced to sell my iFrenchHorn and my virtual softball bat soon. I’m going to have to start hiding you under my bed, iDiary, so you’re not confiscated too. I hope you won’t be insulted. Maybe this policy will stop my hands from shaking. Without the distractions, I can focus on what’s important.

 A newly focused,

Pixel Pittman

 

Wednesday

Dear iDiary,

During my math test today, I wet my pants: I sat there staring at the first problem. “Complete the square.” I think back to my studying last night/this morning (thank God study hours have been extended to allow Wi-Fi and Extra Help 24/7!). How do I  complete the square again? B divided by two squared? B. B… P. Pee. I need to pee. Not now, Rachel. B divided by two squared. Pee divided by two squared. Pee! I. Need. To — Focus, Rachel! Why do you need to pee anyway? You’ve only had five cups of coffee the past two days. You shouldn’t need to pee. Urination is for the weak! Now, complete the square. I feel the warm, stinging trickle sled my leg. My pride stains my pants, but as I sign the Honor Code like the students before me — “fidelitas et integritas” — I am proud. At least I completed the square.

 Dishonored honor student,

Pixel Pittman

 

Thursday

Dear iDiary,

I can’t breathe. My lungs have collapsed I’m sure of it! Who did it? Who plugged in the vacuum? Who stuck its nozzle down my throat? Who flipped the switch? Who turned the volume up that loud? Who? And who? And who? And who can give me a hand? iDiary, I’m scared, I don’t think I will breathe again! The air is too thick. It gets stuck in my throat and flutters out in protest. It’s flag flaps in the wind. (“Do you hear the people sing?”) And I bite the air, teeth jagged and desperate. I am a barking dog to a deaf person. I claw at my chest, skin under my fingernails, desperate for space in my lungs. But it doesn’t work and I’m still not breathing. Does that mean I’m dead? Who dictates these gray matters? Who and who and who…

SOS,

Pixel Pittman

 

Friday

Dear iDiary,

Something scary happened today: I breathed again. It wasn’t dramatic like I’d hoped it would be, like when you finally burp after the pressure in your chest becomes unbearable. It wasn’t like that at all. I was trying to memorize an acronym for PV=nRT when the air slipped in again and my lungs tiredly responded, “Okay, air. Truce. I’m too tired to fight. Too tired to care.” I didn’t wash the skin from under my fingernails before I laid down to sleep. I forced myself to lie perfectly still, to blend in with the thick, gray of night, hoping for the sweet tide of sleep to wash over me and pull me under for a while.

=`==The full empty glass,

Pixel Pittman

 

Comments are closed.