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Extra credit, and how it serves me, whether I be a dutiful student, or a “flunkee,” it may round off my 4.0 GPA, and as such I will be pleased, or it may give me enough class credit for possibly, a D, I may work my poor fingers to the bone, etching graphite with no other wretched hand than my own, into a sea of loose leafs duly entitled “Fibrous Dysplasia of the Bone,” and how, I, moan, at the thought of my effort being reduced, diminished, ebbed and waned because of the effortless, I write notes and I put it in a socket, a locket under lock and key, forever protected so it can better serve my memory, while others write notes and take none of those precautions, they may summarize the lesson and then throw it in their back pocket, to me a holy scripture, a parchment of mass proportions, left to rot next to someones keester, to slip out onto the street and educate the masses with mediocrity, to be spun around countless times on a never ending cycle called “cold wash,” shocking really, when you realize that in terms of poverty and it’s cycle, with this attitude, they are that very lesson, doomed to be written by it’s maker, unable to change, trapped, a few sentences shy of a passed exam, I have studied for countless hours, given my soul to that godforsaken manhole called an “institution,” and never once have I complained until now, they say knowledge is power, yet I have none, as if I need college just to be someone, I have tried my hardest to get where I am, just to chase people who have gave half my effort, if that, I find myself cowering in my own shadow, and my shadow cowering among others, “You are the sum total of all of your choices,” they say, then why am I anything other than what I’ve always wanted to be, extra credit, and how it serves me, whether I be a dutiful student, or a “flunkee.”