Have been whining to Smoketh about the false sense of entitlement of being a “senior”. “Senior”. Yuck. And just for being two years ahead in this bleeping program. Now the “kids” are asking me stuff I have no idea about and I would have to muster all my declamation skills to deliver with conviction. Because really, how would being two years ahead make me more knowledgeable and experienced in the management of, let’s say, Kuru. Oh wait, that’s my favorite disease, along with Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease.

“Bleeech,” I told Smoketh (I know, I always blog about my conversations as if I’m in a comic book or a sitcom, what I really must have said was, “Ay, grabe,”), “Bleech, there’s just this imposed, unwanted, delusional sense of entitlement. What’s with all this seniorship crap anyway, it’s just like I’m in Grade 3 and the junior residents are in Grade 1. There isn’t any huge difference in that!”

“But there is,” Smoketh started. “In Grade 3 you know how to write in cursive. In Grade 3 you already know what integers are. And my greatest accomplishment and greatest edge over the Grade 1 students, when I was in Grade 3 I could use… a ballpoint pen.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, a haze of drug-induced psychedelic colors suddenly swirling in front of me in epiphany. “Oh yeah… when I was in Grade 4 I could wear… long pants.”

Very astute, Smoketh, very astute.

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