Don’t get me wrong: As a senior, I’m attempting to enjoy every last vestige of my senior year. I still enjoy attending pep rallies, my classes, and plugging into school events, like homecoming and hall decorations.

In one manner, however, I’m sick of school. The lengthy period of time that begins at the end of August and endures for nearly a month—the mad dash that we call school registration—has taken up incessant amounts of my time over four years.

Freshman year almost always requires a doomsday-like problem about merely understanding high school. Perhaps the book clerk shortchanges a Geometry textbook, or you forget to pay for your athletic fee. Either way, a tearful frosh at Reg is hardly a rare sight.

Sophomore year, I decided to forego health. Partially out of a desire to avoid copious amounts of work—I had heard that Mr. Zerba easily doled out the most assignments and the most arduous projects (memorizing bones in the human body!)—and that was not what I wanted for my sophomore year. Of course, my decision to pursue online study left a blank period in my schedule. A month of antics spent attempting to fill this period ensued.

The trend, of course, continues. Junior year I avoided any major changes to my schedule, although I did have difficulties arriving to registration (car pool issues…). This year, of course, has reverted back to the norm: more antics attempting to ‘fix’ my schedule and time spent fretting about potential locker assignments.

All of this leads to one simple question: Why? Is there any logical reason that Clevelanders need to show up to school—in August? I understand the necessities of assigning lockers, paying fees, and receiving a schedule; without these functions, school would not function. But, in today’s high-tech, ingeniously-digital world, I’ve come up with my own proposal.

In short, let’s digitalize registration. As above mentioned, I believe every Clevelander has dealt with his or her share of unnecessary stress, whether to prove to the book clerk that you don’t eat Algebra 3-4 textbooks or to convince the administration that you absolutely must attend Foods or you will have to admit yourself to a psychiatric clinic. Allowing all Clevelanders to preregister ahead of time would save enormous amounts of time and allow for all involved in the process to maintain peace of mind.

Here’s how it would work. First, all students would need to complete the majority of forms online, such as fees and basic information. Checks could either arrive with students on their first day of classes or be sent through mail. This way, the entirety of one class doesn’t have to wait in a rapid-fire line of Jan Watt and parent volunteers. How easy is that?

On more “important” topics (to students), such as classes and lockers, I would continue to follow the above format. I can’t imagine that designing an electronic locker database would prove too hard. Much like sports aficionados can see “where” they choose to buy tickets, a Cleveland technology class could provide an electronic locker schematic. At a designated hour, and by class, the administration would release the lockers so that students could ensue in an electronic free-for-all. This way, one could avoid the milling lines and the illicit locker obtaining.

Finally, the big Kahuna—classes. The proverbial question before classes begin is always: What do you have X period? Physics? Ouch! Etc. However, having to put up with a metaphorical cordon of red tape simply to change one’s schedule is ridiculous! Why not grant Clevelanders—with their parents’ consent, of course—the ability to access their schedule in mid July/early August, and change it if necessary?

Let’s say, as Jimmy Q junior, I go through this process. I politely call my mother over to my computer, access the Cleveland registration website, and enter my super-secret password. Bing! Up pops a schedule. After a moment of ooooing and awwwing over various IB classes, poor Jimmy notices something horrendous: his counselor, or the mythical Schedule God, neglected to add Weight Training to Jimmy’s retinue.

Oh no! What can our poor protagonist do? A lot, it turns out.

With a click of a button, Jimmy adds Weight Training and drops study hall. Immediately, a generic e-mail is sent to his counselor, informing him/her of the change. Jimmy has managed to circumvent hours of frustration in obtaining, access to his counselor, and explaining what he needs to do when he already knows!

Of course, there would have to be some fine print. One could not simply rework a full IB schedule to a three-class, I-won’t-show-up-to-noon bonanza. For that, Jimmy would need to talk to Schedule God (his counselor).

Moreover, Jimmy would not have the option of teacher switching. Just because his older sister told him that he absolutely must avoid one class does not mean to say Jimmy has the power to switch into another teacher’s class. Finally, if a class were “overbooked”—let’s say over 35 students—then Jimmy would have to petition, through his counselor, to get in.

Whew! That’s a lot to process, I know. Registering for school at home? It seems such a foreign idea, but the benefits are many. Firstly, students would be able to sleep in. Do Clevelanders really need to arrive at eight o’clock in the morning to pay fees? I think not. Moreover, by modernizing registration, students would almost surely pay more attention to what they’re doing at a later time.

On another note, figuring out one’s schedule would require much less hassle. Having potentially a whole month to change/drop classes, or rectify any mistakes that the computer-generated schedule generates, would avoid the normal rash of misfortunate students who have to compete in order to merely see their counselors. I’m sure the counselors are with me on this one.

Finally, in today’s world, it just makes sense. The process is easier and reflective of the times. Ask yourself this: Is it logical for the administration to sort out everyone’s schedule by paper? No, absolutely not! That process would consume countless more hours and be that less efficient.

It’s the inverse with today’s process: Cleveland’s wait-in-the-hall-for-two-hours routine belongs to the 20th century, not the 21st. Clevelanders are figuratively stuck with abacuses instead of calculators, quills instead of pens, and stone tablets instead of computer documents. Modern society no longer relies upon any of the above archaic tools. There’s no reason for Cleveland to continue with its version.