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9.26.2008 P.S. 11895 DOCUMENT NO. 34659474 FROM 88HD
Right now, it's 11:24 AM and I feel like I should be formatting this page into MLA. But I'm not going to. It's supposed to be double-spaced or something, but really, I find myself not caring whatsoever. Really, I should be writing an article for the journalism class that I'm in, but I can't find the motivation. The internet won't work, and that's why I'm here -making it look like I'm actually doing something.
I'm listening to two chicks sitting at the computers across from me talk about some guy that I've never heard of, and I can feel the acidic sting of vomit cresting the bottom of my esophagus. Now they're actually getting to work, and I'm relieved in some way that they've stopped swooning over some D. bag, but I'm mistaken again. They're still talking about how "sexy" this guy is. I've contemplated driving a spike through my brain, so I don't have to listen to this crap, but figured that it probably would mess up some other aspect of my life, so I'll consider an alternative.
I'm starving. Well, not like those kids in Africa or wherever, but as far as a white, middle-class American teenager who skipped breakfast can starve, I guess. Lunch is in another 25 minutes, 26 minutes, I don't know, not soon enough. I might feel better afterwards, but I'm not sure. I probably won't but an authority figure would tell me I'm just being pessimistic.
They're still talking about that f---ing guy. The conversation is getting a lot dirtier, and I'm starting to feel sick again. They're talking about this guy, that hot guy, those "hotter than me" girls, and relaying stupid facts back and forth, that in the grand scheme of things are outstandingly trivial. Maybe someday they'll realize how much they suck at life, but probably not. I censored that last "F" bomb in case Mrs. Pereira looks at this.
"That's his booodddyyyy..." she says to that girl whose name I don't know. They must be showing pictures back and forth. Vomit again. She talked about moving in with this guy when she was the age of 15 -getting an apartment or something. He must be a real desperate loser. I'm really trying not to focus on this s-t , but I can't hear anything else besides a barely audible roar from the rest of those kids talking.
Looking to my left I can see Nick viewing some sort of poorly drawn webcomic, he must be just as bored as I am. There's a poorly drawn bunny sawing through another with a poorly drawn chainsaw, while poorly drawn blood spews in all directions. I wonder how many hits that website gets. I wonder how many viewers look at that instead of a more talented artist's work.
Nick just caught a look at what I'm doing. He asks me about it, and I dodge the question. I don't mention how I'm bored out of my skull and trying not to think about the completely bullsh-t conversation that's happening across from me. I'm leaving out a lot of my thoughts on it because I don't want to end up in guidance talking to a counselor about getting some serious mental help. At this point, euthanasia supporters look like angels. Klansmen look like spring lambs. All those Chinese fur traders seem more innocent than a whole room full of infants.
It's 11:40 now, and somehow I've managed to burn 16 minutes. Somehow the belief in Santa Claus shows up in that heinous conversation. They wish they still believed, they wish they could have chosen ignorance. They're legitimately angry that they found out that a fat old bastard really hadn't been breaking into their house and flying a set of retarded moose across the planet in a single night.
I can't hide this document any longer. Nick looks again and I read him what's written two paragraphs up. He looks almost frightened, yet somehow still pleased. In this classroom, Eva Bleyer's birthday is important. They make an announcement. Its 8 days away, and she's going to be sixteen years old.
Hoo-friggin-ray. To my left, Shana looks as dead-bored as me. I'm not sure if I spelled her name right, and I'm not really sure why I care. It's raining behind her. I considered not going to school today when I saw the weather. Not that I was concerned for my safety. I legitimately didn't want to go. I wish I hadn't. I somehow don't see myself getting this assignment done tonight like I'd planned. Maybe I'll turn it in late, maybe not at all.
"Remember, I wanna learn something." Mrs. Pereira says somewhere to my right.
Funny; so do I.
Lunch is in two minutes according to someone across the room. Apparently, the girl across from me would name herself Nicole, because she likes that name. It might as well be her name already, as far as I'm concerned.
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