Its second period in the day, and you're in math. Of all the lowly classes you could be in you got siphoned into Mr. Becker’s. Sitting on the left side, middle pair of desks is the best place you can find in the class. You try your best to get away from the giggling "popular" girls, always guffawing about some unimportant drivel. Or the "Want-To-Be-Super-Models" always fixing their hair and putting on more clown make-up, making it appear even more so as if they rolled in a bag of Doritos. The gothic kid in the corner, with more make up on then the clowns themselves, that everyone and anyone seems to be afraid of. The jocks flexing their muscles at some giggling girl across the way, winking so many times that their eyes look like they are having a mini seizure. The cluster of different ethnic students, sticking together like double sided tape, no matter how often they bicker with each other. Or that one kid in the back corner, with the over sized headphones trying to look like he's the "next up and coming rapper" but all you hear coming out of his headphones; all the way down the hall, Is Justin Beiber playing over and over. No matter how many times you ask if it is he'll be right there denying it till the end. Then there’s you; the plain Jane, simple T-shirt and some worn out jeans trying to do your work. The teacher keeps talking though he knows almost everyone has completely and utterly stopped listening. You’re sitting there trying so hard to hear him over the absolute chaos going on around you, your brain trying to comprehend the complex algorithms; but the kid in the back is snoring away, the girls giggling louder and louder! The jock’s obnoxiously leaning over your desk, just to try and get a better “view”. You sit there trying your best not to punch him in the head and tell him to get his slimy, over worked body away from you; trying not to scream at the girls to shut their sniveling mouths and just shut up for once in their "pretty little rich girl" lives. But you sit there and take it, waiting for the bell to go. Jumping up from your desk the second the bells go running into the first "great green giant" that just so happens to pass the door at the wrong moment. The same repulsive routine, like an mp3 stuck on repeat, every day. Six more months then you’re out of the everyday pulsing headache that sits right behind your eyes that everyone calls "High school".
Friday, 7 September 2012
That Nonsense That We All Call High School
High school, the fight between the teachers, best friends, and other repulsive beings we call students.
Its second period in the day, and you're in math. Of all the lowly classes you could be in you got siphoned into Mr. Becker’s. Sitting on the left side, middle pair of desks is the best place you can find in the class. You try your best to get away from the giggling "popular" girls, always guffawing about some unimportant drivel. Or the "Want-To-Be-Super-Models" always fixing their hair and putting on more clown make-up, making it appear even more so as if they rolled in a bag of Doritos. The gothic kid in the corner, with more make up on then the clowns themselves, that everyone and anyone seems to be afraid of. The jocks flexing their muscles at some giggling girl across the way, winking so many times that their eyes look like they are having a mini seizure. The cluster of different ethnic students, sticking together like double sided tape, no matter how often they bicker with each other. Or that one kid in the back corner, with the over sized headphones trying to look like he's the "next up and coming rapper" but all you hear coming out of his headphones; all the way down the hall, Is Justin Beiber playing over and over. No matter how many times you ask if it is he'll be right there denying it till the end. Then there’s you; the plain Jane, simple T-shirt and some worn out jeans trying to do your work. The teacher keeps talking though he knows almost everyone has completely and utterly stopped listening. You’re sitting there trying so hard to hear him over the absolute chaos going on around you, your brain trying to comprehend the complex algorithms; but the kid in the back is snoring away, the girls giggling louder and louder! The jock’s obnoxiously leaning over your desk, just to try and get a better “view”. You sit there trying your best not to punch him in the head and tell him to get his slimy, over worked body away from you; trying not to scream at the girls to shut their sniveling mouths and just shut up for once in their "pretty little rich girl" lives. But you sit there and take it, waiting for the bell to go. Jumping up from your desk the second the bells go running into the first "great green giant" that just so happens to pass the door at the wrong moment. The same repulsive routine, like an mp3 stuck on repeat, every day. Six more months then you’re out of the everyday pulsing headache that sits right behind your eyes that everyone calls "High school".
Its second period in the day, and you're in math. Of all the lowly classes you could be in you got siphoned into Mr. Becker’s. Sitting on the left side, middle pair of desks is the best place you can find in the class. You try your best to get away from the giggling "popular" girls, always guffawing about some unimportant drivel. Or the "Want-To-Be-Super-Models" always fixing their hair and putting on more clown make-up, making it appear even more so as if they rolled in a bag of Doritos. The gothic kid in the corner, with more make up on then the clowns themselves, that everyone and anyone seems to be afraid of. The jocks flexing their muscles at some giggling girl across the way, winking so many times that their eyes look like they are having a mini seizure. The cluster of different ethnic students, sticking together like double sided tape, no matter how often they bicker with each other. Or that one kid in the back corner, with the over sized headphones trying to look like he's the "next up and coming rapper" but all you hear coming out of his headphones; all the way down the hall, Is Justin Beiber playing over and over. No matter how many times you ask if it is he'll be right there denying it till the end. Then there’s you; the plain Jane, simple T-shirt and some worn out jeans trying to do your work. The teacher keeps talking though he knows almost everyone has completely and utterly stopped listening. You’re sitting there trying so hard to hear him over the absolute chaos going on around you, your brain trying to comprehend the complex algorithms; but the kid in the back is snoring away, the girls giggling louder and louder! The jock’s obnoxiously leaning over your desk, just to try and get a better “view”. You sit there trying your best not to punch him in the head and tell him to get his slimy, over worked body away from you; trying not to scream at the girls to shut their sniveling mouths and just shut up for once in their "pretty little rich girl" lives. But you sit there and take it, waiting for the bell to go. Jumping up from your desk the second the bells go running into the first "great green giant" that just so happens to pass the door at the wrong moment. The same repulsive routine, like an mp3 stuck on repeat, every day. Six more months then you’re out of the everyday pulsing headache that sits right behind your eyes that everyone calls "High school".
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So much for school days being the best time of your life, right!? Those six months will fly by!
ReplyDeleteOhhh yea. Sure most of the time it is but this is a typical day in the life of high school now.
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