Seniority

I am older than the shaved graphite pencil you grip to take copious notes in lecture halls. My age far exceeds the larynx muscles of your windbag professor in addition to the entire lifespan of his do-gooder T.A. Though he sprouts shocks of distinguished gray, there is more of a parody between my prime and the oxygen molecules he pushes around hopelessly in search of instruction than his own person. I even predate the few salient points he manages to get correct. I am older than the air and water jet looms that helped produce the nylon fabric for your trapper keeper, older than the lined note paper that was drawn from inferior oak, older than the metal coil that allows you to turn a page. The cafeteria that you frequent with your peers used to be a bubbling tar pit hosting insects big enough for a man to justify shielding himself with both arms. Put a frozen dinner in your microwave and set it to five minutes. That is my best attempt to explain how far removed I am from the Boxer Rebellion. You think in terms of brick and mortar. My memory includes a few large stones pushed next to a tree downed by storm conditions. We lived in mammalian nests way before any habitat had the luxury of a roof. When you pontificate, I only want to raise a clever to your umbilical cord. Speak sweetly to me from inside the two or three decades of your pampered daycare. I am qualified to educate on star death from witnesses and give a class on every terrestrial scar that came from beyond our skies. Before fruits, grain, and the occasional kill that developed our blood lust, men did eat angel's food.