Although many lives are certainly more romantic than mine, few compare to it in variation or length, for you see, I AM A DESK.

It all started one morning when I was comfortably planted in a forest, leading a happy treehood with problems few and far between. One day a big animal, wearing a flannel shirt and leather boots, put a big "X" on my lower trunk. In another week there I was, on the ground alone and miserable, being sawed into small pieces.

I was made into a desk and sent to a place called Maine Township high school. I know this name solely because some knife‑happy student carved it on my underside. I stayed there for eleven years being very careful not to attract the attention of those nice custodians who each summer took off all my scratches and gave me a new suit of shellac.

Being unobtrusive was to no avail. As the years rolled by, I noticed certain of my friends would disappear and never be seen again. I was well aware that I was the oldest desk in this particular English class, but never thought that I would share the same fate. However, one day I was hustled off to a dark room where all my bolts were removed. I figured that my end was near.

After a short nap, I awoke in a room that was quite different from the one I had left. It shone with the brilliance of new paint and new blackboards, covered the most remarkable change of all. I now had the same luster as the rest of the desks.

This change from one room to another has made friendships in the classroom even m ore closely knit than before. I hope to "eat my inkwell" if it isn't proven true that the students who sit on me, scratch and carve me, and shove books and papers into my innards, catch a contagious disease called pride, and learn to love and care for us.

So, Adieu ‑ good luck ‑ and may all your problems be straight "A's".