Twenty Aught Three (Where are you?)

Hey Islip High School Class of Aught Three- Where are you now? We'll soon be in the 'teens. You can't deny that it happened- you're in the yearbook. You were there on the folding chairs waiting for the diploma with the sun in your eyes. Where are you? Walmart? Where the fuck are you? Aught Four? Aught Five? Anyone there? Fingers smudged with the Help Wanted Section of the Pennysaver or the Yankee Trader. Still in the same bedroom, on the same bed you slept on before Sex Education. All your soul cramped into the space taken up by a Twin Mattress. Falling off the Hamster Wheel of Life. Get an "Alumni Survey" in the mail- it's a scantron, like a standardized test- to 'ascertain how well your school prepared you for your chosen path.' Q: What are you doing now? Choose all that apply: School F/T School P/T Work F/T Work P/T Other- cross them all out: Failing Miserably. Q: How well did your school prepare you for what you're doing now? choose: Very Well. The corner is smudged with the ink from Help Wanted Ads that all say "exp. necessary" and the ones that don't never call you back. Gotta get out, gotta get out of wherever it is you are. Where are you? I saw you working at Target- you've gotten fatter. Looking for a cheap apartment that might not exist. New Mothers/No Money. An exact scale double of the Statue of Liberty, constructed entirely from Nickles and Dimes. (Aught Two?) Give me your poor, huddled masses; I'll make them poorer and more huddled. (Helloooo, Aught Six? Can you hear me?) On a Quest for the Almighty Dollar which won't even get half a gallon of gas.  See your future in a coworker at Some Shitty Job and try to ignore the chill in your bones. Go cry yourself to sleep on that same bed you used to not finish your Chem homework on. Addicted to something- coffee, cigarettes, knocking girls up, sabotaging yourself, maybe alcohol. Slowly getting cancer. No medical benefits. Meaning to keep in touch but you know you don't. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Karma. Irony. Catch-22. Grown only wise enough to appreciate how really terrible it all is; how fucked we all are; how little you can change. But nobody listens to you, do they? Dig that hole a little deeper. Whose grave is it? It must be thine, for thou liest in't. Wonder, how much do gravediggers make an hour? Sell your coat and shoes on ebay. The Beat Poets understood. Wake up and wonder where you are. Same house, same room, same bed- but where are you, really?