Forsooth: “friends,” classmates, and nonintellectual plebians of this high school. This letter is to inform you that I will not be suffering the senior prom.
I know you have been wondering. I’m here to stem the flow of rumors, before they run wild o’er the banks of reason and form a pond of doubt. No, I am not going to the prom. Indeed, had you borne witness to my actions these past four years, indeed paid any attention to me at all, the answer would be plain as the day is long.
I was too intellectual to attend Homecoming, the vapid barbarian ritual into which this town places such importance, this pointless celebration of men with heads like hogs and hands like hams throwing around an unengaging ball that is not even shaped like a sphere. So, too, was I too intellectual to attend the Winter Formal, with all of its frivolous Yuletide trappings, an atrocity frosted in a snow of hate.
No! – I shall not be going to the prom.
And this writer does formally, humbly entreat: stop looking at me as if you think I am going to the prom. I can see that heinous question glittering in your glassy eyes as your slack and drooling mouths discuss the prom, and cast a loaded glance at me sometimes, as if you are wondering, “is she going to the prom?” She is not. I am not. I have no need for prom. I have no need for trivia.
Your next question, then—“Why? Why is she not attending the prom?”
This question, too, is utter abject drivelry. Need I reason not to attend such formal dances? I shall answer my own question herewith: I needn’t! But answer your query I shall, for all those pompom-carrying simpletons who cannot find the obvious answer written in constellations in the star chart of my past behavior.
First, the clothing. Now, I have calmly and logically moved to convince some of my peers, who I had thusfar considered to be of the intellectual sort, (such as Megan and Preeti and Jessica) that expensive, formal clothing is but motley to the fool, and that there is no practical purpose in the purchase of ostentatious garb if one only intends to stand and sit and stand again for but the briefest of periods, a mere feckless blip on the radar of this a sprawling sea of life. I assumed—therein my mistake!—that Megan and Preeti and Jessica listened.
They in turn chose the sweetest allure of blissful ignorance. They purchased gowns from the department store, the emporium of common simpletons. I will try not to hold it too strongly against them in the future, when I consider their intellectual fiber. (I hear that Megan has acquired for herself a lip gloss, and a rogue for the cheeks. Fie, Megan. Fie.)
As to myself: the only thing I need ever dress myself in is the robe of integrity, but I need no occasion for this, as I wear it every day.
Second, the music. What do the youth of today know of composition? I posit: nothing. I would just as soon slowly pour acid into my ears with a turkey baster as I would listen to any music by the alleged “Pitbull.” Indeed, I often wonder if my so-called cohort have not “done their eardrums in” with some kind of acid. That would explain their hellishly witless taste in music! (Ho-HO!)
Anights I sleep abed to the sounds of Beethoven and Bach—a little Satie for a modern twist. Their melodies, their harmonies, their notes cast kaleidoscopic transcendence into the threads of my dreams. Who among my peers can say that? Megan and Jessica and Preeti I thought for sure would have taste, but they informed me gently that Preeti’s brother is the DJ, and he has curated the playlist, and that playlist includes Drake.
(I heard rumors that Preeti’s brother school is bound for law school in the autumn. I do shudder to think of the future of our justice system.)
Third and lastly, there is the matter of the utter thoughtlessness of the celebration overall. The propensity of this school to assign us all the identity of gyrating rakes simply astounds. I was under the impression that this was to be an institution of education.
Where is the education? Have you any idea how much celebratory activity the school thrusts upon our persons? I shall list a few: Homecoming (aforementioned), Pumpkin-Carving Carnival, Winter Formal (aforementioned), Spring Festival, Prom (herein discussed).
But you may say, “these celebrations were necessary! These celebrations were fun!” Fun? Feh. Peers, how many books have you read this year!? If it is fewer than one hundred, I refuse to engage in discourse with you. In fact, I am astounded you have even gotten this far in this letter, for I suspect your literary skills are subpar. If you have chosen to etch the likeness of a ghost in a pumpkin over the steeping yourself in the engrossing tragedy of The Brothers Karamazov, then you have chosen to marinate in ignorance for this life and all beyond! There is nothing more “fun” than the decomposition of the soul that can be witnessed in literature.
You have been given up on. I have abandoned you. Cry not. Sigh not. Wail not when the twin fires of Ignorance and Shame melt the flesh from your bone…. For you have been given multiple omens.
So when your precious prom night arrives, fools, slowly turn your bodies on the dance floor like so much meat on a spit. Dear classmates, don your tiaras, your spotless gloves, your glittering shoes. Ride in your limousines. Have your “fun” and flail about your pointless, brief lives.
I shall be in my quarters, engaging in the life of the mind, transcending all.