My Evil Teacher

One of my teachers is evil I think. After hours I'm sure he dwells in the aphotic school basement, slashing red scars on all our well-worked assignments, lacing and unlacing his dress shoes, while feeding on gasping, overgrown rats he heartily raised himself. And when it comes time to rest, he laces up his shoes one last time, only to drop himself into the round, seemly grave in the muddy ground he conjured himself, taping his eyelids closed and forcing sleep.

Okay I just made him seem like an enormous, lonesome creep, versus the baneful, high school Hilter I was originally going for... But, you never know- Maybe he annually bribes the district with treasures and rat pastries, usually just ending in brain-washing, to grant him just one more year of the glossy privilege to continue enlightening us florescent adolescents.

But let's go with this: familiar with Mr.Ratburn from Arthur? And Red from That 70's Show? Well those two charming characters got together and somehow produced the result that is my teacher.

You know how most teachers are always like, I want you to strive and succeed and get good grades and be happy and good and good and good. Their intentions are positive and benevolent and pretty and give you hope.

Yeah I swear tho, this guy's goal is for us all to fail. He'll make sure that if you don't pass that 10 point quiz, YOU WON'T GO TO COLLEGE. And I never exaggerate. You know that!

He's also one of those teachers that just says "Do it." as opposed to explaining how it's done, then letting you out into the field. Yesterday, my lab partner and I sat at our table looking like idiots with a microscope, 4 slides and probably 10 packets. The entire class was doing the same thing! The directions he gives us are shitty and his attitude is shitty and the whole class is just a big shit-fest and the guy doesn't even give a shit.
He gives me a ridiculous amount of failing grades and I probably do deserve them all, but I'm an angst-infested teenager so I like to blame my problems on other people.

Awk

I have a problem with staring at people. Well I think a lot of people like to stare, or "look at a certain subject intently", but a few of us are better at controlling the urge than others. Some people are just too good looking or too weird looking or just too human and I can't help but dissect them with my eyeballs.
And then they sense your eye rape and turn to you and you're going to either:

1. What what what what darting eyes I'm looking at the American flag I'm looking at the inspirational poster I'm looking at the clock oh look it's 10:33 how interesting :)
2. Lolwut? Continue notes on Roman Empire..
3. Ohhey. Casual masculine nod.

Anything to not make it any more awk than it already is. But some weirdos are like "stop staring at me why are you staring at me do you like me oh my gosh you like me wanna date me?"
And, I might just be the only one who goes to such extent of over-analyzing shit like that, but it probably does me mentally good to have myself believe that whether it's true or no, I'm not the only one. Right?

Across the Room

In what’s probably my least favorite class, I was blessed with getting to sit right next to my favorite girl- and what a delight this is! OF COURSE, grey yesterday, me loca profesora thought it best to move me across the room, which really might as well have just been across the ocean- but thank goodness for ammatuer sign language I guess...

Anyways, now I routinely slouch next to Barbie. Her jeans are super tight, her hair is super voluminous, and she likes to twirl her gum around her finger while it's still in her mouth. Adorable. The young lady who switched seats with me is one of those cute girls who wears a lot of bracelets and calls them "candy". She just sits there, dragging a pencil across white or whatever to copy answers with a sad hand and ridiculously sulky posture. Sometimes we make eye contact and she actually pouts, complete with bottom lip stuck out. Taylor, you bitch, you took my seat! But baby, I'm not too pleased either.

Wide Feet

Tonight is a night where I don't really have all the much physical energy, but I have plenty of brain power, and it'd seem like the perfect thing to stay up until 3 watching tele and painting my toenails and forgetting everything and petting my cat and talking to my cat and just being sad, but in a happy sad way. And I woudn't have to worry about anything. That I might get nail polish on my blanket. That I might be a zombie tomorrow and forget how to keep my eyes open and fail all my quizes. That I don't have a date to homecoming, even though I'd kinda like one, and I have had a secret crush in the back of my brain and the bottom of my feet and the tips of my fingers on a super handsome boy since I even started highschool, and even though there is a negative chance of him ever doing anything with me even semi-date-like, I still like to think he might ask me. But I won't even have to worry about that. And I won't have to worry about what I wear tomorrow, because no one even cares anyways. We all know I'm just gonna wear the same baggy skinny jeans that I have 4 pairs of, but all in different shades of blue, that I wear, everyday. And I'm gonna wear some shirt that is too big for me, and has a lot of holes in it because I suck at longboarding, but I'm just gonna cover it up with a scarf my great grandma wore when she was 25 and hot, or a hoodie covered in cat and dog fur. Then even though I have a ton of perfectly good shoes, I always slip on my black stupid Toms that aren't even that cool. I don't know why I even spent 40 delicious dollars on them, when I could have bought 39 Arizona green teas, or a nice bike helmet, or two phone chargers, or a fancy scientific calculator. I think I spent that much money because I wanted to be cool, and I wanted people to like me because of what I was covering my smelly, peeling feet with. Except for $40 isn't gonna buy me any popularity, $1000 isn't even going to buy me popularity. I kinda stopped caring how much money is going to buy me popularity. My feet are too wide to be popular anyways, my Toms are literally bursting at the seams on the sides. How hip.