The Seven Stages of Hell (Of Mine, Anyway)

The First Stage: High school. I don't remember there ever being more or even as much drama in my life. I'd like to walk down the hall without seeing a rival or one of my more annoying friends, but of course that's impossible. And the cliques, or whatever they're called. There's the Mexicans--and some of the Mexican'ts; the stoners--who always smell like ass, potato chips, and dead skunk; the goths/emos--sometimes the guys look like the girls, the girls look like the guys, and the gays can be either/or; the geeks--band,  book club, or computer/math; the preppies--usually the people I avoid at all cost, like Maggie or Gavin, you know: jocks and cheerleaders; and then my friends--a mix of emos, closet stoners, cosplay geeks and freaks, and those who can't find their own niches. 

And the teachers are the demons sent to torture you without mercy, of courser. There's Mobley, my geometry teacher from hell. I personally think she's crazy, but the nice guys in the white coats have yet to be seen. My other teachers aren't so bad. Pretty cool, for teachers. I have geometry-- because I'm not smart enough not to be--which normally, I'd despise with a passion, but Mr. K is motivational and often tells the class of his own misadventures back when he was suffering through the same hell that we high school students are.

And what's with the faculty trying to prepare us for the 'real world?' I doubt a lot of the things that they teach us has anything to do with the real world. There's nothing more 'real' than you're mother and father unemployed, or trying to get a job to help pay for the bills, or stuck between two 'rents who are still married but hate each other, or your best friend trying to commit suicide in the girls' bathroom. Nothing more 'real' than watching the shutoff notices come in the mail like clockwork, or worrying that there might not be enough food in the house by the end of the month, or sitting in a dark house because 'dad' spent the money for the electric bill on booze and drugs. That is the 'real' world, not some fantasy that I might go to France or become a brain surgeon. I didn't get whacked over the head with the idiot stick--in fact, I'm pretty damn smart--but I doubt that I can become some rocket scientist.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not having a pity party here. I love my life, but I'm just saying that some teachers should teach less bullshit, and try to understand that I didn't turn in my project because mom was sick and dad was trying to start a fight and ended up kicking a hole in the backdoor that I spent the whole night patching up so the landlord didn't see it. Yeah... High school is hell.