sorry i haven't written in forever. i've kinda had a life...OHHHHH! BURN!! i'm an idiot. anyway! this is my creative writing story. i happen to like it quite a bit. it made me realize how terribly annoying i can be, really, i complain A LOT. well, it was the point of this story, to complain, but still, i complain A LOT...yea. so, enjoy!
The shrieks of the small clock are like a knife, stabbing into my brain, ripping me from my dreams. I don’t always wake up to the sound of my alarm, only when I plan on taking a shower, but every time I do, I wake up angry; not at anything in particular, just angry that I’ve been suddenly awakened, and rudely taken away from my dream land, by an inanimate object, carrying no feelings in which I could destroy for obediently completing this terrible deed. In a sleepy daze, I flipped over my sheets and swung my feet around to touch the carpeted floor. It was cold in my room, so I attempted to make a quick exit, but instead tripped over a pile of god-knows-what junk on my floor. I expected this to be the first of many near-death experiences, and occurring at such an early hour, I had high hopes that the day would become increasingly worse. To speed up my morning: the shower ran cold for at least five full minutes, there were no good clothes for me to wear (I hadn’t gotten the chance to do my laundry the night before, due to being extremely tired, for lack of sleep; and that being due to a project I forced myself to complete the day before (as it turned out, my teacher didn’t want the project until the end of the week, which would be today). Without being supplied with my first choice of "what to wear," I angrily threw on something else). There was a lack of milk in my house, the only supply was sour. After nearly missing my bus, and my mother throwing my bag and shoes out on the wet lawn, I sat in anger and listened to my music alone, for the time being. The bus ride to school may seem very long to some, but it can seem even longer when sitting next to the wrong person. Luckily, today was my day, considering how well everything else had gone so far. The girl, who had barged her way into my seat, was two years younger than me, but younger in maturity than that of a twelve year old boy. It was today of all days that I had forgotten to bring all of the necessary items in which to ward off such terrible creatures, of whom I was seated next to, from entering ones already too crowded "personal space." Items such as bag-o-tacks, pointed sticks, chains, mace, explosions, and anything else you could possibly think of. Without my much needed weapons, I was helpless to her forceful intrusion, but was very thankful, for the music God’s were with me in my fifteen minutes of need.
Upon entering the mental institution, of which they call school, I found out, in complete embarrassment, that my shoe laces were untied; of course, I realized this just as my eyes began to widen in astonishment, at the decreasing proximity between the hard blacktop below my feet, and my head. It was not until I arrived late to my first class that I seriously began to consider that this day might never improve. As I sat at my lopsided desk at the back of my math class, I dazed off, thinking of everything that could possibly go wrong with the rest of my day. While I was somewhat exaggerating, it didn’t seem too far-fetched; forgetting a project or two, getting caught doing this or that, not seeing the one person I consider to be my savior on such a terrible day; and then the normal incidents, like getting hurt in every way you could think of. Suddenly, while picturing myself falling from one of the many trees that encase the school, a paper appears in front of my face. In big bold letters, it reads "TEST." It was at that point, while thinking freaking what the hell, that I knew my day would pan out just as I had suspected, excluding any accidents with tree-tops, of course.
I left my math class knowing that I had just failed yet another test, I’m horrible in math. I’m horrible in science too, that’s why I’ve tried so desperately to avoid the science classes that I know will cause me trouble. Classes like Chemistry, Physics, and most others that include anything to do with math.
As my unrelenting, accident prone, miserable day continues, I make my way to my least favorite subject, debate. Today, surprisingly, we’re learning more words, more terms that are no less synonyms for one another. This alone, the fact that I’m just not good at memorizing anything, let alone words that all mean the same thing, is basically the only reason I would fail this class. The research isn’t that much of a problem, except that you never really know exactly what to look for. You’re given the topic to be debated, but not the side that you’re defending. But you’re given a topic, not a specific thing, just a topic, a subject, a theory; something so broad that it’s almost impossible to find any information to better your argument, which is unclear because you don’t know what side in which to defend. The steps to preparing a valid argumentative debate, which we began to do yesterday, are so incredibly strenuous that you just want to die. If I had known that this class would remind me so much of social studies, my third least favorite class, I definitely would not have signed up for it, which apparently I myself did. Like debate, I find history to be strict memorization, and I’m not very keen on memorizing dates and people that did something else that I can’t possibly remember. Why this is considered an English elective I truly don’t know. As I feel a slight headache approaching from the confusion of my debate class, I journey to a much happier place, English.
Teachers say that math always coincides with science, so if you are good at math, you should be good at science. The same goes for social studies and English, for most people. I do all right in English, therefore I should do well in social studies, but that isn’t the case. It seems to me that every major subject has a death wish upon my life, all except for English; instead of ruthlessly killing me with numbers and formulas and facts, English prefers that I contract a deadly disease, not a very far cry from murder though.
On entering the classroom, I am unfortunately reminded that this is the last day to hand in the project that I just kept forgetting to do. Freaking what the hell, could I seriously forget one more thing today? Despaired by my idiocy, I keep the teacher behind while the rest of the class exits to retrieve their books from the library. I know what my problem is, why I don’t complete anything, the real problem is that I just don’t quite know how to fix it.
"I’m really sorry I didn’t hand in my paper today."
"Don’t be sorry, it’s not affecting me in any way, my grade isn’t going down, but yours is. You really have to get this stuff in to me."
How can I not be sorry when I can sense that he’s thoroughly disappointed in me? And that, by far, is such a terrible feeling, when you’ve become so lost that your teachers show pity for you, even when you know that that’s the one thing you really don’t deserve, that and a second chance. If I wasn’t so lazy and slow, maybe procuring work wouldn’t be so difficult for me. I like writing, I just hate deadlines. They cause so much stress that it’s almost unbearable. He just nods his head in an understanding and considerate manner, with a look that says, "You know I’m right." Personally, I would hate me if I were a teacher; I don’t understand how he puts up with it.
"I know, I’ll get it in to you, I just need more time."
I almost idealize the people that can write essays in three hours and get an A on them. It also doesn’t help that I tend to be a perfectionist about most things; if any paper I write isn’t perfect, or close to it, I can’t hand it in. I once stayed after school for about five hours to finish a paper that was due, maybe, two weeks before. That’s the sort of lackadaisical behavior I have; I put things off for so long that by the time I start the project, I’ve put myself under so much pressure, that when the due date passes, getting it in just seems insignificant, or pointless. When I finally do hand it in, I usually end up telling the teacher something to the effect of, "It’s so late, you don’t even have to read it, just give me the F now." I hate what I do, and the problem is, it happens every time.
"I know taking the time out and pushing hard until you get things done isn’t exactly what you want to do, but you have to do it. You don’t really have a choice." He gives me a shrug, and I feel as though I’ve lost, so I nod my head and say, "All right, I’ll finish it over the weekend," and leave the room.
Contrary to popular belief, I hate failing much more than I do school itself. Failing is not just a grade or something that happens, it’s more like a feeling, an emotion, one I personally cannot stand. And yet, I continue to condemn myself to the most arduous situations, circumstances where the increase of time and lack of ability dig a hole, distance me from ever returning to the constant, steady, and regular way of life, of which most students are proud members of. Well, many students are far better with time management than I could ever be, excluding the smokers of course. Even for them, and the gangsters (how could I forget?), they have to feel some anger towards themselves for failing every subject.
After getting shot down in English, I make my way to Oceans, the science alternative. This class is filled to the brim with the rejects previously mentioned, and I just don’t see how they can walk around, failing everything, and say, so eloquently, "Like I care?" Unless the drugs have stunned them of feeling any emotion whatsoever, I doubt the outcome of their grades means that little to them. Even if they despise school, teachers, students, and basically the world around them, wouldn’t it be just the least disappointing to see them doing so miserably in a place that depends so much on their future? To me, it’s as though you are watching your life being graded, and each time you get a lower grade, wouldn’t that grade devastate you? As far as I’m concerned, no one wants to fail at life, they just do. Especially these guys, it’s as though they have no concept of reality, or common sense. Today, we have a substitute teacher, and we’re watching a movie, an exciting one on sharks. Our enthusiasm about Oceans is as overwhelming as it would be during a lecture about wood particles. I just can’t express how truly thrilling this class can be. The sub is young, in his early twenties, and is actually involved in an interesting conversation with one of the druggies.
"So you smoke?"
"Yea, cigarettes, you?"
The sub is obviously disgusted by this question, but answers politely, just the same, "uh, no. No, I don’t. So, why do you smoke?" This is a valid question.
"I don’t know. It’s like," he pauses, looks at the sub, looks down, "having something to do." Freaking, what the hell? This is not a valid answer, quite far from it in fact! How on earth this kid could concoct an answer as asinine as this is simply beyond me. "Having something to do" is playing with a ball, or cleaning your room, or going on the computer; it’s doing something not too productive, but doing something, at least, of some importance. Having a hobby is "having something to do." Unless your hobbies are mutilating your body or drinking tar, I don’t really understand how anyone could possibly consider smoking "having something to do."
Exiting the class with the drug-induced idiots, it’s on my way to my next class that one of them gives me particular trouble. Taking a quick glance behind me, I see him there and think, freaking what the hell?! Does he ever leave me alone? As easy as it might seem, it’s very difficult trying to avoid specific people. While walking through the halls, you’d think that, with the masses of students roaming to their different classes, you could easily become hidden in a sea of teens; but it actually, as I have found, never works out just that way. It is much more difficult trying avoiding these people than it is trying to talk to them of course, but one is definitely more painful.
The skill to avoiding is to know exactly what the avoided will do; which way they will go, how fast they will walk, and especially, whether or not will they check if you are near by. Thankfully, I know my surroundings, a pertinent piece of information for the avoider, one to keep in mind at all times. I keep in mind every nook and cranny as I struggle to keep my distance; a protruding wall to hide behind, where that hallway will eventually lead, even the maximum capacity of an area at different times of the day (this knowledge used for when in the sea of people, if you’re lucky). I know all when it comes to avoiding unwanted scavengers. It is a difficult task, one that requires lots of practice, of which is granted to me every day. I have tried talking to him, (actually, forced would be a better word) and it’s simply not enjoyable; the kid is an ass-hole, and I just can’t stand it. My first step in trying to rid myself of his presence was to show a darker side, show him that I could be just as much an ass-hole as he. After a few tries at this, I finally got the response needed, "God, you’re so mean all of a sudden. I’m not talkin’ to you anymore." As much as I thought this was just a pitiful attempt at flirting, which I was very sorry to consider, it was not! He had actually been serious and ceased his meaningless conversations with me, and I was overjoyed. For months he was conversing and walking with other people from my class, walking in the opposite direction that I took. Suddenly, however, his trips with the other people, away from me, became less frequent. Now, as I walk through the hallway, I find myself struggling with the insignificant distance between us, taking all of the precautionary measures.
Finally escaping his realm, I went to creative writing. It’s only this class that can attract polar opposites to its computers. There is no in between here, you are either a great writer, or you are not, and the class is filled with equal amounts of both. Most classes usually include a wide range of intelligence and creativity, but not this class, it’s just either or. Ironically, the class is called creative writing, giving the impression that everyone who enrolls would be creative and, most likely, enjoy writing; however, guidance is fond of supplying people with classes they never even thought to take, let alone enroll in. It doesn’t help that, even for those who enjoy writing, when surrounded by the most innovative of writers, you consequently appear to be the worst writer to have ever put your pen to paper. There is no end to the inadequacies I find in myself during this class alone. There is never a time when I am not reminded of all I could be, what I should be doing, or what I wish I had. I suppose that’s the way with most teenage girls though, which bothers me terribly. I can’t stand that almost everyone in high school is the same. Everyone has the same problems, the same complaints, and the same social life, well, depending on what group you’re in. If you’ve slapped a name on yourself, then you’ve been thrown into a stereotype, forced to deal with the extras that go along with it. There is nothing worse in high school than to deal with being considered one thing, one stereotype, for a total of four years. After high school, what do the stereotyped expect to do with themselves? But in creative writing, no one has the stereotype problem, not that bad anyway. All of the good writers know what they’re going to do with themselves, what will happen, their whole future seems to be planned out; to those looking from the outside in, their futures look pretty damn good, too. My future however, consists of a big blank, just one big question mark. Will I be a writer? If so, will anyone bother to read my stuff, whatever it is that I happen to be writing? There are just so many questions and so little answers. I couldn’t even tell you what I’ll be doing next week, let alone next year, or farther than that. Right now, all I can do is pray that I get through high school alive, and with at least a 3.5, because I must go to college. If I do get into a college, will it be as glorious as people make it out to be? Personally, I find that people are quite fond of contradicting themselves; society just can’t make up their mind whether or not high school is the best time in your life, or college. High school has teachers, friends, sweet sixteen’s, and idiots. College has professors, life-long buddies, dorm parties, and idiots. I can see how someone could mistake these differences for similarities, but I don’t see how either could possibly qualify as "the time of your life." There are people who say there is always good in the worst of places, if you try hard enough every day can be a good day, live your life to the fullest, etc; these people are the peppy, super optimistic, "I live in a bubble," type of pathetic human beings. They never went to high school, or college, because anyone who’s experienced youth in any sort of social setting, would never say something like, "everyday is a good day, you just have to find the good in it." No one who has felt the torture of being an adolescent would ever agree that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, because life is just one big tunnel, and the only light you’ll ever see is a flash of white light when you die, just before it turns black, signifying the complete end of course. But, for now, the only light I see is the glowing of my computer screen as I sit, glaring at it, as though something will magically show up, and end my streak of writers block. Suddenly, something happened to me; is this an idea that I have? Do I finally understand what creativity and ingenuity feel like? Are my days of staring at nothing finally over? Have I…and then the bell rang.
Study hall is by far one of those periods where anything can happen. I look forward to it some days, and others, I couldn’t dread it more. If it’s not too loud, I can possibly do some work, otherwise, I’m forced to listen to the mindless babble of girls and their social tribulations. The most commonly used phrase between girls, one of which I hear twenty times a day, is definitely, "and oh my God, you’ll, like, never guess what he said."
Why is it that some girls seem more suitable for relationships than others? It is that they are more outgoing therefore more agreeable to converse with? Is it their physical features? What makes one girl more apt to obtain the attention of males than any other? Some girls are very pretty and very outgoing, liked by everyone, but have no boyfriend; this situation alone can contradict what many people think, it cancels the "it’s easier for extroverts to get boyfriends" theory right out. But if you are an extrovert, you can easily get the attention of others, and you most likely have many friends, and if you are pretty, than what on earth would be holding you back? This is exactly why I refuse to worry myself with relationships. There just seems to be no acceptable answer to who gets a boyfriend and who doesn’t. It all appears quite useless, the preparations we go through to "look pretty," just so other people can continue dating. I can’t say this situation occurs only in high school, but it certainly happens this way far too often to not bother me. High school relationships in general are just displeasing; everyone seems to act so immature, both on a regular basis as well as in a relationship. I suppose with the more relationships one has, one can become more mature about dating; it just sucks that we have to struggle through high school before that can happen. The problem with kids though, is that the girls are too flighty and confusing for the guys who don’t show the girls enough emotion. The guys are too confused to even attempt at trying to figure the girls out, let alone show some emotion; because the guys can’t decide on the appropriate action to take with the girls, the girls then get angry and complain to their friends in conversations similar to the one I’m overhearing now. It’s just one big ball of emotional disarray that is actually accepted in society, which is what I don’t understand. Basically, I don’t see the point in agonizing over something that will just further complicate an already complicated life. I’ve made it through high school this long without killing myself over the company of a boy, or lack there of, so are boyfriends really that big of a deal? Being lonely is never fun, it’s actually one of the worst feelings, but if nobody likes you for whatever reason, because there’s no answer to how to get a boyfriend, then all you can really do is give up and deal with it. You can't make somebody like you, as in faking to be a nice person, because after a while they’re going to figure out that you aren’t the person they thought they knew. But then there might be things that you just can't fake; for instance, if you’re not interesting, than that’s it, and if you’re not pretty, than there’s not much you can do about that. To me, dating, or not dating, just seems like a dead end, a rut, a black hole of misery. So, I might not like being lonely, but there simply isn't much that I can do about it. I can cry and complain, continue to make myself miserable with the false hope that one day, maybe, my life will change, that I'll change; but until that happens, I'm going with plan A: getting over it, telling yourself it's not important, dealing with it not as something unfortunate that will someday get better, because with that thought, it just hurts more, but as a fact that you just need to face, you're able to deal with it, because there's nothing you can do, it's a fact and that's it. I won't get a boyfriend and that's that, when I tell myself that, it's not depressing, because it's true and I've gotten over it. If you can’t face the facts and move on, if you can’t subdue your feelings of loneliness, then you’re making high school much harder than it could be.
Finally, the last bell of the day rings and everyone fly’s out like bees. Indistinguishable conversations bombinate from the halls to the sidewalks, and enemies give each other one last sting before everyone fly's off. I however, if by miracle am not staying after, am usually one of the first on my bus, so I'm given the chance to view everything from my seat window. I see the couples kissing, the idiots beating each other up, and the girls gossiping with their friends; some people are causally walking, some are skipping, and some are in a fast walk, but where are they really going? Why is the end of the day anticipated so much when there really isn't much to do when you get home? I always feel that it's quite pointless to go home and do nothing, so that's why most day's, one can usually find me, after school, in the library. Perhaps that's only me though, perhaps I feel this way only because I am without a boyfriend to converse with when the day is said and done, perhaps it's my lack of communication skills as a whole, maybe that's what invites that sense of loneliness to my table, while sitting solitary in the library, every other day; perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Seated on the bus, I remind myself that I can say all of the "perhaps'" and "what if's" I want, but that it won't change anything, it wont make any difference in how the rest of my day pans out, so I cease my pointlessness and instead ask myself, why aren't you staying after today? As I contemplate and gaze out my window, someone catches my eye. He has a sort of bounce in his step, a very sloppy and youthful stride, as though to imply happiness; his walk, however, is quite deceiving, but easily identified, and I recognize my friend at once. With the light sinking into my seat, burning my leg, I watch him approaching my window. Suddenly, he looks up, very unexpectedly, to see me looking directly at him. Slowing down, he smiles, gives a wave, then mouths the words I'll see you tomorrow. To lengthen the moment, and seem as though I have some level of competence, the novelist in my head attempts to cultivate a response in the most adroit way possible, but instead creates something incoherent and most definitely a run-on sentence; this pleonasm being my very pathetic result. The busses begin to start up, so I quickly ask, "Where's your bus," because an "okay, bye," while watching him walk away, just wouldn't cut it. The busses are filing out and he's not moving. I look at him as though to say, "What’s wrong with you?" Glancing at the train of yellow exiting the school, then looking back at me, I read his lips as he says, "It's okay, I'm staying after today." Freaking hell, this can’t be happening. Sitting in astonishment, with a blank stare and dropped jaw, my bus begins to move. He smiles once more and waves, continuing on his way. I, in turn, raise my hand slightly, then, as he recedes from view, I let the motion of the departing bus push my body flat against the back of my seat. Fate, it seems, is not in my favor today. The one day that I decide to confine myself within a bus full of screaming kids, instead of sitting in a nice, quite library, is coincidentally the one day that I could be staying after with one of my friends. No, fate definitely doesn’t like me today. But it’s okay, because I don’t care. It’s not as though I expected this day to turn out all right, and I’ll have to get over that. So, I reach for my backpack, unzip the front pocket, pull out my I-pod, and turn up the volume.
Not everyday will be perfect, and not everyday will suck; but you do have to take everyday with a grain of salt, perfect or not. People can try their best to make everyday "work," to make it as pleasing and functional as possible, but I don’t believe that one can really do that. We can attempt, we can plan, we can hypothesize, but we can’t make everything go our way, and as teenagers, I think that fact angers us a great deal. I do get angry and upset, I’m not totally emotionless, I just feel that my emotions shouldn’t run my life like they do every other teen. I might sound "emo," or depressing, or pessimistic, but in all truthfulness, I’m simply trying to make sense of my life, in whatever way it’s perceived. Complaining is obviously the main way that I get through the day, and work out my problems. I don’t necessarily enjoy complaining all of the time, but that’s just how I deal with high school day after day; I suppose that I find being blunt with myself, and the people around me, is the only way that I’ll ever understand anything in life, no matter how confusing I might get. The way I see it, life is far too daedal a subject to make sense of, so why should I, or my explanations, have to make any sense? If I understand myself, then, clearly, that’s all that matters. So, I’ll continue to complain, and all the days, people, and problems will stay the same, and we’ll all keep living, never changing, and with every bad thing that happens, or every stupid person or action I see, I’ll always respond by saying, "Freaking what the hell?!"
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