A Day In The LIfe

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic


The struggles of being a teen. The struggle of waking up at 6 am to go to meaningless school. The struggle of making friends when you are VERY anti-social. The. Struggle. Is. Real.

Submitted: November 19, 2017

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Submitted: November 19, 2017

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“You’re a robot.” Everyone thinks I am incapable of what humans call emotion because nobody has seen me cry since we watched to movie, All Dogs Go To Heaven. I guess I should have known from the title, it wouldn’t end merrily, in my defense, I was ten. I really don’t understand the point in crying. Also, I feel that crying is almost-like, aside from deaths of relatives or whatever, totally avoidable if you follow two very simple rules. 1.) Don’t care too much. 2.) Shut up. Everything unfortunate that has happened to me has stemmed from failure to follow one of these rules. Rumors going around school? Shutting up works. Following the rules works. So, I shut up, and I don’t care, and I keep walking, and soon, it’s over.

 

Sometimes, I get a little punch in the face from reality. That’s the thing about me: my problems are so huge, everyone else hides theirs behind mine. When I have a problem, for example, anxiety, and I text you, nobody can type as fast as i can deteriorate. Eventually, I give up on the hope that my friends can help me. I just try to smile. I look at myself in the mirror for quite some time and a smile creeps over my face. My whole face changes when I smile. This eyebrow-lifting, perfect-teeth-showing, eye-crinkling smile. Cheers me up a little. School. Not so much. I am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me. Those seem to be the two choices. Everything else is just killing time. When I am about to leave for school:

 

Mom: Goodbye! Love you!

Me: Bye, Love you.

 

I don’t say “Goodbye.” I believe that’s one of the lamest words ever invented. It’s not like you’re given the choice to say “bad-bye” or “awful-bye” or “i-couldn’t-care-less-bye.” Every time you leave, it is supposed to be a good one. Well, I don’t believe in that. I’m completely against that.

 

Every school morning I pray that the school bus will crash and we will all die in a fiery wreck. Then my Dad will be able to sue the bus company for never making school buses with seat belts, and he’ll be able to get more money for my tragic death, than I would have ever made in my tragic life. (Just kidding.) Unless the lawyers from the school bus company can prove to the jury that it wasn’t their fault. Then they could get away with buying Dad a Ford Fiesta and calling it even.

 

Well, the first bell rings. Like all bells in our fine institution of lower learning, it’s not a bell at all, it’s a long beep like you’re about to leave a voicemail saying you’re having the worst day ever, and nobody is ever going to listen to it.

 

Let’s talk about teachers. I mean, I have no idea why anyone would want to be a teacher. You have to spend the day with a group of kids who either hate your guts or are kissing your butt for a decent grade. That has to get to you after a while, being surrounded by people who will never like you for any REAL reason. I’d feel bad for them if they weren’t such sadists and losers. With the sadists, it is all about the power and control. They teach so they can have an official reason to dominate other people. And the losers make up pretty much all other teachers, from the ones who are too incompetent to do anything else, to the ones who want to be their students’ best friends because they never had any friends in high school. And there are the ones who honestly think we’re going to remember a thing after final exams, right.

 

Then, there’s lunch. When you look at people at the other tables, I wonder what they could possibly be saying to each other. They’re all so boring and they’re all trying to make up for it by talking louder. I’d rather just sit here and eat. I’ll talk about MY friends later.

 

The end of the day. Everyone at school has afterschool activities. Mine is going home. I go home and typically check my phone. There’s always some texts, some Snapchats, and the usual junk email. What I want to know is: Is there really someone in the whole world who gets an email from llmmww@hotmail.com, reads it, and says, “You know, I really do need to enlarge my butt 33%, and the way to do it would be to send $69.99 to that nice lady, Mary, at GLUTEUS MAXIMUS CORP via this handy internet link!” Who actually falls for that?

 

Eventually, I put my phone down and finish my homework quickly. Then I go into my room and watch Law & Order. This time it’s one with this guy who strangles blonde after blonde, after blonde, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it like twenty-thousand times already, I’m watching it like I don’t know that the pretty reporter he is talking to is about to have the curtain cord around her neck. I don’t watch that part because it is really stupid, but once the police catch the guy and trials go on, they’re all like “Dude, the cord knocked this microscopic piece of skin off your hand while you were strangling her, and we ran it under the microscope and found out that you’re totally screwed. You gotta know he wishes he had worn gloves, although the gloves probably would have left fibers, and he would have been totally screwed anyways.

 

Another thing, dinner. I would give anything not to have to spend twenty minutes sitting across from Mom, because she doesn’t believe in letting silence go. No, she has to fill it with talk. I want to tell her that’s what the voices in your head are for, to get you through all the silent parts. But she doesn’t want to be with her thoughts unless she’s saying them out loud, which is depressing. Truth is, thinking about something depressing, depresses the mess out of me, so I go back to my room and watch more Law & Order.

 

Now, to the topic of friends. Almost any time I have a friend over at Mom’s house, literally every room is off limits. I end up finding myself asking my friend if she wants to go outside. She usually gives me this weird look, “Outside?” Yes, look, it’s not like we are gonna kill ourselves. If I wanted us to do a suicide pact, I’d opt for bathtub electrocution, you know, with a hairdryer, like poets do.

 

But, when it comes to having friends over, that is the only fun at Mom’s house. Otherwise, it’s constant arguing. Not to mention, her boyfriend’s son. The son, whose name I always purposely pretend to forget, well, his pencil has more personality than he does. Anyways here’s what usually happens:

 

Me: *Blah Blah Blah, Arguing & Yelling*

Mom: I really need to get a life.

 

I think she’s directing this at herself, or the universe, not really at me. Still, I can’t help but think that “getting a life” is something only a complete idiot would believe. Like you can drive to a store and get a life. See it in it’s shiny box and look inside the plastic window and catch a glimpse of yourself in a new life and say “Wow, I look much happier - I think this is the life I need to get!” Take it to the counter, ring it up, put it on your credit card. If getting a life were that easy, we’d be one blissed-out race. But, we’re not. So it’s like, Mom, you’re life isn’t out there waiting, so don’t think all you have to do is find it and get it. No, your life is right here. And yeah, it sucks. Lives usually do. So if you want things to change, you don’t need to get a life. You need to get off your butt and do something about it. Of course, I don’t say any of these things to her. Moms don’t need to hear that kind of stuff from their kids, unless they are doing something really wrong, like smoking in bed, or doing heroin, or doing heroin while smoking in bed.

 

At Dad’s house, these kind of things never happen. But when they do, my stomach flips a bit. It usually starts by being called into the living room. The living room, the room least likely to be lived in. The room where the nonexistence of Santa is revealed, where Grandmothers die, where grades are frowned upon, where one learns about the birds and the bees.

 

Dad: Is there anything you need to tell me?

*My Head: Yeah I want to tell you that my third nipple is lactating and my buttcheeks are threatening to unionize. What do you think I should do about it?*

Me: No, Love you!

And, that’s about it.

 

Nothing interesting has happened for a week. I don’t mean this figuratively, like there s this shortage of significant events. I mean that nothing has occurred. TOTAL STASIS. Sort of heavenly, to be honest. There’s the getting up, the showering, and the school, and the relief of leaving, the bus home, and the homework, and the dinner, and the parents, and the locking the door, and the good music, and the social media, and the reading of people’s posts without writing my own because my policy on shutting up extends to textual communication, and then there’s the bed, and the waking and the shower, and the school again. I don’t mind it. As lives go, I’ll take the quietly desperate over the radically bipolar.

 


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