Little boxes on the hillside...

Hey kids! I would like to show you a series of photos and I want you to tell me the theme.

I'm not sure what is in the bottom middle cubbie but it looks like dead rodents. I wouldn't be surprised, feeding the class pet is the first internship you will ever have, and you suck at it.

P.S.-  Bonus for the awesome bike helmet.

Obviously a public school. Although sweet robot drawing.

If I were a ghost I would haunt this room. I'm not sure how they managed to make yellow look bleak.

 Privacy is for winners. You are obviously not a winner. 

Room for one more? Yeah it's a coffin. Deal with it.

If you haven't guessed the theme of these alluring photographs, it's my interpretation of the stages of middle class american growth and it's fucking bullshit. I am all for compartmentalizing feelings, but how the hell are we so OK with literally compartmentalizing ourselves. It's like we are the thermos in a shitty lunch box: we don't quite fit but with enough force those plastic latches will hold until noon...or in our case death. 

We go from a tiny space to put our stuffed animals and juice boxes in ( and don't think I don't notice the size limit starting so early on. Limit your dreams 6-year-olds). Also, learn how to color inside the lines because your parents are tired of hanging ugly drawings up on the fridge. Learning your parents are embarrassed of you and compartmentalizing the rage that their disappointment makes you feel is what growing up is all about tiny humans. 

The next 8 years or so we get lockers. Lockers are slightly larger, but only slightly, and the time frame students are given to go from class to class is a expert lesson in commuting in a city. 

Onto dorm rooms ( if you're lucky enough to get out of your parents house). The only thing I have to say about this stage is that you need to get a meningitis vaccine before living in a dorm. Nothing like the fear of epilepsy and paralysis to make life's possibilities seem endless... sweet nectar.

Welcome to your cubical. This is where you will work until you die, or retire at an age where you are too old to enjoy the freedom.  I hope you enjoy the 40 fucking years you will live in that doom box with your dying plant and a picture of your wife and kids who hate you for making them live in N.J.

Your last stop is a coffin. Congratulations, you've made it to the final box. Have fun spending the rest of eternity in it!

P.S. Don't forget kids: There is no heaven and everyone dies alone.

Have a great day!

Jealous.