Harry Potter Is Not Straight Edge
An original editorial by Becky G.
Personally, I've always considered myself one hundred percent straight edge, meaning I do absolutely no drugs or alcohol. However, during a conversation with a friend, trying to convert her to Potterism, I realized that Harry Potter is an addiction, just like nicotine or any other drug.
Recently, I went over to a friend's house for a sleepover. I hadn't been home all day and, therefore, hadn't been on the computer to get the latest Harry Potter news. In addition, I did not have any Harry-related literature with me. My friend, being an illiterate fool, of course, did not have a copy. That night, after we had gotten into our sleeping bags and stopped talking, I simply could not fall asleep. I was thinking about what could have happened in the Potter world while I was busy gallivanting about, without a thought to my beloved hero. The moment I got home the next day, I read a Harry Potter analysis book for about three hours, and I then proceeded to check news online, which was grossly abundant due to the fact that I had not checked for a horrifying twenty-four hours or more.
That fateful day when I found out about the release of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, my heart brimmed with joy. The following day at school, my Potterist friends and I annoyed our rigid English teacher to the point that she allowed us to make an announcement about the upcoming book and shove Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone down our classmates' throats, proclaiming, "You still have time to read the first four before the fifth comes out! Hop to it!" While the teacher talked about William Shakespeare, my friends and I discussed possible outcomes for the fifth book.
My anxiety levels in the weeks leading up to the release of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix were amongst my highest ever. There was only one way to describe my anticipation: "I'm itching for it." Literally. In that restless preceding week, my father was the first to mention to me the Jim Dale reading of the first page on the radio. "What was it like? Was it good? Was it exciting? How much did he read? Did it reveal much of the plot? Can you recite it to me now?" When his response was a trite, "It's her best yet," my head began to itch, and I scratched it vigorously until my father told me to stop because I was creating dark, red lines on my face.
And finally, that fateful day came. On June 21 I woke up to the sweet, melodic tunes of my doorbell, leaped downstairs, and picked up the package as the UPS guy ran back to his truck to deliver to more happy customers. There it was. I had never seen anything as beautiful as this. In my trembling hands was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and, with it, all of my hopes and dreams. This was it. The ultimate hit. I curled up in my comfy chair, opened the cover, and contentedly began to read. Angst. Character development. Humor. Confusion. Character development. Suspense. Grief. More character development. Twenty-four hours later, I closed the book. I sighed; it was oh-so-satisfying. And yet, it was not satisfying at all. True, the itching for Book 5 had ceased. Now, there's a dull ache for Book 6.
Today, I have gotten my daily fix, so I am quite calm now as I say this: "My name is Becky, and I am a Potterholic."