Angelous Ginanena

My school has a dress code. We must follow this dress code. If we do not, we will get a Dress Code Infraction, which results in some severe penalties. Obviously, you do not want to get a DCI; I did not want to get a DCI. Every assembly and sometimes in the hall, this same particular teacher kept pointing out that my black sweater did not have a logo. She always forced me to remove it, something I did not find necessary. Her cold-hearted demeanour left me cold throughout the school day; I know she meant well however. This left me having to make a tough, but worthwhile decision.

With permission, I purchased a rather expensive UCC sweater. It has our school crest on it, so I am allowed to wear it in the school whenever I please, unless told otherwise. This item is the key to surviving in the harsh Toronto weather. With it, I can study without feeling like I am about to have my abs fall off. At last, I was at peace with my self, and my warmer body.

The day after I bought my new sweater, I went for a basketball workout early in the morning. In a hurry to get in game, I hastily removed my sweater, among other garments, and place them to the side. Little did I know that afterwards, I would forget it there, and not find it for over 2 weeks. Of course, I was frightened; the carnage I would face from my mother if this unfortunate mishap were to be unravelled would be equivalent to a hurricane. If you know her personally, you may understand my fear, and you might also understand why I withheld this information from her for most of the duration of my search.

For two weeks, heavy denial occurred whenever she approached me about my quite visible depression. Oh mama, how I feared disappointing you as much as I feared your dreaded wrath; so I kept it a secret. I had my initials on the sweater, so I notified my main man Mr. Derek Poon, and he forwarded my SOS email to the whole school. I still didn’t find my sweater. Even after I received an email from the The Used Blues Shop, (where a Lost and Found is located), I was still not able to locate my sweater.

The days passed, and the guilt crept deeply within my subconscious. Finally, when I could not take it any longer, I embraced the shame and sent my mother an email, remorsefully explaining my situation. She replied later that day, anger etched within every single letter in her reply. I was devastated. She did not accept the fact that my clumsiness lost my sweater, and she sure wasn’t going to buy me another one. If I wanted another sweater (or another one after I lost my next one and so forth) she clearly stated how it was my money that was going into purchasing the attire. And the sweater I lost? The money for that would too come out of my savings.

No use pleading with the governor.

As I prepared to head home that day, I decided to take a look at the shop one last time. You know, before I was hounded and harshly punished by my supreme ruler of a mother, or in other words death row. Divine intervention, or Deus Ex Machina as Mr. Sharpe would call it, was indeed on my side; my sweater was right there on a hook in between a couple other sweaters. I rejoiced, tears welling in my bug-eyes. My glasses fogged as I approached my mother’s car; they were tears of pure joy mixed in with some of legitimate terror as I realized…

My mother wouldn’t give a flaming (explicit content) whether or not I had found it.

Moral of the story: lie a bit longer to get out of deep faeces, and label your stuff with your full name, not just your initials.