Coppell Observer is a humorous column about life as a teenager. Please be warned that any and all sass is due to the writers’ similar situation as teenagers (even though we feel so much older). You, the reader, should not take any of these words seriously. Seriously. If this article makes you laugh, leave a comment.

When the clock strikes 3 p.m., I finally roll out of bed. 

All at once, deadlines swarm into my head, the personal secretary in my mind rattling off the 5,922 ways I could be productively using my time – schoolwork, learning new languages, even watching TV or drawing. 

Instead, I just pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. 

You cannot blame me. To wake up would be to get something done and feel that fantastic sense of accomplishment, yes, but it would also mean confronting the awful truth that has rattled the very corners of every teenager’s – no, every living creature’s – world. 

I am stuck at home. 

I have never been a vengeful person, but this pandemic has brought out a malevolent force long hidden deep within me, one so angry and horrified with this situation that it vibrates violently with anxious annoyance (or maybe that is just my stomach growling). It is becoming increasingly restless, eager to seek out its revenge (or maybe just the pantry). 

I have my reasons for being so upset. Some people are saddened about not having a prom, and understandably so. Others are distraught about their summer plans being canceled indefinitely. I completely understand and even relate – but there are more pressing matters at hand.

For one, I am being forced to coexist with my family. Every day at exactly 6:30 p.m., the sound of coronavirus theory videos booms through our house, my signal to evacuate the premises and leave the couch for my parents or face the looming threat of doom predictions. Being educated is undoubtedly a priority in these times, but I would rather not hear that this is the end of the world or that I will be stuck at home until 2022. Both fates seem equally daunting. 

It has become increasingly clear that families are not naturally intended to interact with one another. 

Obviously, friends are more naturally attuned to one another, which makes it all the more pitiful that I can barely remember their faces. I am ever grateful for the modern day Profile Photo that pops up with their every text, a reminder of what they look like. But even still, that face often looks like a stranger, the face of a person unfamiliar that I have never met. 

That is, if anyone ever texts me, which is admittedly rare. 

Sometimes, I lie awake at 4 a.m., trying hard to recollect the taste of my favorite Starbucks drink. Horrifying questions haunt me relentlessly, simple concepts that have since escaped my mind. Did I ask for one or two extra pumps of raspberry syrup? Was there whipped cream on top? Which size was most flavorful – grande or venti? I long for the day I can finally get the answers – if it comes at all. 

I honestly do not think I can stand being tagged in another Instagram bingo challenge. I may pull my hair out if my Spotify free version shuffle starts playing random songs once again. The fear of forgetting how to pull off my trademark eyeliner is far too great. Something needs to be done – and now.

I am willing to drop all my future aspirations and interests to find a cure. I will travel to the ends of the earth by foot (while social distancing, of course) to put an end to this fiend. No longer shall it bring poor teenagers to tears, heartbroken at the prospect of losing the would-be iconic summer of 2020. 

Instead, I just pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. 

Follow Shravya (@shravyamahesh) and @CHSCampusNews on Twitter.