So why am I here again? Just another bad day, as opposed to good. Can't sit still, no reasons to move. Want to go home, just to get bored.
"The bell just rang," says a stranger's face. Now comes the fun part, as I strap my brain to my back I begin to head through the hallways of this fine establishment. The first sounds of testosterone like yelling and immature laughter climb into my ears, reminding me of my bad day. Continuing on like a fish against the current, I am run into. I regain my balance and give a smile that says "you're excused asshole," and keep trucking. As I make it to that fun filled patio I place my hands in their pockets and lower my head. Don't feel like making eye contact with the rest of the world today. Please, no small talk either. Acquaintances always seem to ask the wrong questions.
Moving on with momentum on my side I see a pack of boys trapped somewhere in between the second and third stages of puberty, finding laughter in a young girls' sign of a cold day. At this point I've decided that I am sick of this place, along with the thoughts that make me think this way.
I pick my head up from its somber state and see someone I would call familiar. Finally a person who can tell that I wasn't having a typical rainbow day. See, a friend can tell how full or empty your cup is on any particular day, before you are close enough to waste words.
eye contact with the
rest of the world today."
My friends and I, we're no different than anyone here, we try to stand clear of the drama that high school brings, but who doesn't. We come here everyday with something to gain and nothing to lose except the interest in things around us. With vibes that would make Satan smile, we have fun. Some days, you couldn't pay us to give a shit about matters some find interesting.
If you ask me, this is a quality that not all posses, and many try to practice. Just a daily routine for these kids I call cool. In fact, if you ask me, I think this is what adults miss most.
My mother often tells me when I complain of being bored, that she could only wish to be bored. She could only find time to have "nothing to do." Most adults, in my eyes at least, are always on the move. Never a moment to themselves, their time always being spent by someone else.
Not to say I'm bored at school, but when it's raining on my parade, school is just not the place I wish to be attending. It's just people seem to do the wrong things when I am angry. Pointless conversations, go nowhere. Questions destroy me. Answers, I have none.
I know my problems are the least of your worries and I wish they were the least of mine. Now as I stand between two friends atop the stairway looking down amongst the chaos with an apocalyptic cool type feeling, I crack a smile. I realize, with a touch of self-persuasion, that no one really cares if I'm having a bad day or a good one. As long as my emotions don't explode upon someone and I maintain composure no one would even notice this dwindling rain cloud just above my head.
I figure I'm wasting my day away with this pessimistic frame of mind. Maybe I should put these thoughts away for a rainy day. So I swallow what has been choking me and make my way to class.
With each step my day gets a little brighter, I begin to whistle. Just like that my day now changed. A few steps away from that tight squeeze between the blonde with a blow pop and the pearly white drinking fountains, I feel a sting two inches behind my right ear followed by the sound of pennies dropping. As I turn around to find this mistake maker, I find myself still wondering about my reasons of being here and why I haven't left yet. It's just another bad day.
A writer writes to remind,
remember, forget, fix,
twist, look past, and
explain things that
aren't fully understood.
If what we have written
amuses you, believe us we are glad.
This is the added sweetness to the
icing on the cake.
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