An Introduction To Love..

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Editorial and Opinion  |  House: Booksie Classic
my and my friend, tiffany, wrote this together. it's basically her guide to surviving tough middle school love years. don't take it too personally, we were just bored and were looking back on our middle school years.

Submitted: July 02, 2008

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Submitted: July 02, 2008

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I really don’t know how to begin to express how I feel in a truthful letter. I don’t even know how to begin a school essay. I only follow the rules. The rules that tell me you need a thesis statement or some “fun” little fact that will catch a reader’s eye. Psh. Personally, I find that completely uninteresting or, as some people call it, “fun”.
I’m pretty sure 99% of the adults out there pretty much forgot how it’s like to be in middle school. Sure, they say they do, but if they did, wouldn’t half of those kids who need help be so much better off? I’m not trying to be judgmental against “understanding adults.” All I’m saying is that I’m completely and totally just sick of it. Sick of what, you may ask? Well, here goes. People expect us middle-schoolers to be “happy” or “enjoying” the best part of life. Once again, YEAH RIGHT! To be completely honest with you, there’s a much bigger chance of Hillary Clinton being a man that that of us middle schoolers being happy. According to us, happy is only in those loserly fairy tales where the mother deer is reunited with her son and they skip away happily to find berries or whatever. What’s there to be happy about? Um, like, nothing? Do you honestly think that receiving year-long projects from teachers, lectures from parents, backstabs from “friends” and heartbreak from your crush is fun? Yup, you got it. Let’s just say, you find the perfect guy, but end up being hit on by some creepy little nerd. Uh, like, EW. Yeah, thank you creep, I feel loved now. (If you haven’t noticed, I’m being sarcastic.)
People tell me ALL the time middle school is the easiest. Uh huh, If you’re so sure about that, why don’t you take it a step further and tell that to the student body of MY school? Well, you’ll end up in some kind of mental institution. I mean, imagine, middle schools and high schools are “designed” to make you drop out and become some kind of homeless person. Having your head cut off for some stupid F that some perverted teacher gave you because your tank top didn’t show enough cleavage, UGH. Have your heart broken and stomped over a couple of times, and then tell me that. Still, they NEVER believe us. I just want to tell them to get their happy little caffeinated heads out of my life! But, of course, I can’t, because “they” is basically my parents, and they’re the ones with money to feed and clothe me. It’s not like I don’t try to earn money. It isn’t my fault I got fired from my job at the sample table in Sephora because I jabbed someones eye with a ballpoint pen, thinking it was liquid eyeliner.
Anyways, back to my “fun” and “enjoyable” middle school years. Here, I’m going to focus on my number one problem – boys. I always told myself not to cry over a guy. Not to waste time over someone who wouldn't waste time over me. But, seriously, who would ever listen to that “advice” when it’s no more then a load of crap? Uh, yeah, sure we do. Which is exactly why me and my frienemies wake up every morning with a wet pillow. Seriously, even though I had been influenced by the millions of love icons that scream ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE on the web, the truth had hit me a long time ago, the same way the fugly yellow school bus I take hits a dog on the street. Yup, and it had hurt. Love was fake, and life was cruel.
I decided that when I was walking down the hall one day and saw my crush doing something he really wasn’t supposed to be doing, like, you know, asking that slut out. Which was totally fine with me, especially after I had thought he liked me when he told me I was nice the day before. Yeah, right. I thought love was supposed to be happy or all “floating on a cloud”. Psh, more like floating on a pile of needles. And those brief five seconds of “bliss” basically made up my mind about love. It didn’t exist. At least, it didn't exist in middle school. Wait a second. Excuse me, allow me to rephrase that. It wasn’t only LOVE that didn’t exist in middle school. Only about a million other things didn’t exist in middle school. You know, like happiness, friendship, relaxation, decent schedules, edible lunches, lockers that didn’t smell like old socks, etc.
Even though I admitted that love was about as real as unicorns, I still fall EVERY SINGLE TIME my crush sticks his left foot out and trips me. Metaphorically, of course. And I know that it was all a huge mistake, an even bigger mistake then the time where I had accidentally hugged my math teacher because I thought she was my mom. Because, duh, that loser (my crush) was just playing games with me. And in this game, I had a huge loss, and not just because my dice was rigged and my playing piece was super-glued to the board. Good game, huh? Wonder if it’s selling in Wal-Mart.
Obviously, you’re sitting in front of this letter I wrote, thinking I’m just out of it and that you should recommend me to the local psychiatrist. But I’m just telling the truth, bare and raw. I’ll show you a small scenario to help you understand what I mean.
So he’s started to talk to you, and you’re mumbling in what sounds like GREEK. And you need something, fast! So you reach into your bag and hope to pull out your iPod or something so he’ll go away and talk to your frenemies. But when your hand emerges from your backpack, you’re holding… the Parent Talk! You freeze, realizing how dumb you must look. Picture it: two people sitting at a table, one person’s talking to the other, and the other starts to read a dumb newsletter. And he’s staring from you to the newspaper in a creepy way, the same way Mario would when he realizes that Luigi is a serial killer. So, of course, you try to cover up for your totally un-smooth move, by starting to go on and on about something you don’t even know about. As if acting like a complete blabbering idiot in front of “him” is cool. It’s pretty much enough for any middle school girl to fling herself into a pool of piranhas. Duh, the piranhas are picnic compared to the social discrimination she’s about to get. Who the hell reads the parent newspaper? Oh wait, that would be you. The guy you like is totally oblivious to the fact that you’re falling for him like a loser. Which you are, of course. You might as well cut the crap and give him a shirt or something that says “I LOVE YOU. MARRY ME, OKAY?” Then you start to wonder, why do we always fall for the most stupid and jerk-like guys? ‘Cause they are sweet and nice, until you learn they are just playing unfair games. I’m not even going to keep going on about this load of crap. TMTH. And if you’re some crazy little over achieving parent who really shouldn’t be reading this but wants to know about your child’s “life”, TMTH means too much to handle. And now, you stupid over-obsessive parent, get your nose out of this book ASAP before someone arrests you for invasions of privacy.
So what happens when your life shatters into tiny, microscopic bits? It starts to show everywhere on you, through your actions, choice of speech, the way you dress, the way you eat spaghetti... And guess who notices it the most? Your totally beloved teachers and parents who “understand”. To help you comprehend a little more, I’ll display another scenario, even though you’re probably getting sick of these:
“So what’s wrong with you?” Your teacher would ask you during detention one day.
You don’t know what she means, whether she’s talking about the way you’ve been acting or the reason you smacked your crush’s head with a notebook during class.
So you mutter a “huh”. It’s the safest answer other then, “I gotta go piss.”
“I’ve noticed some changes in you recently. Is everything alright?” You notice the way she purses her lips after every single syllable and want to kick her for that. You feel the impulse to tell her to shut her thin, chapped mouth up and get a life (or at least some cherry-flavored Chapstick). But you don’t because, well, you don’t want any more detention.
So as the detention hour goes on, or, well, drags on, the lifeless teacher tries to pry more and more information out of you, which is a challenge, because the only words that have left your mouth are “huh” and “may I use the bathroom”.
“Try to lighten up. Middle school is the easiest part of your life! Try to enjoy it!”
You don’t say anything.
“I was in middle school too, and you probably think it’s hard, but it isn’t! Just because you’re upset that you got a percent lower on your last science quiz then your best friend, it doesn’t mean you have to be all depressed! Depression is for emos!”
Finally, you speak up, because you can’t take her crap anymore. Seriously, what’s wrong with being emo? Your older brother is emo! “As if!” You shout. “Stop trying to be Miss-I-Understand-Your-Pressure! Are you trying to help or what? Because you’re making things even harder for me, you…” You can’t think of an appropriate adjective to describe her, so you scream the first thing in your mind. “You doughnut-eater!”
She stares at you.
“You’re a teacher, goddammit! Teachers don’t have lives outside of school! Teachers are dedicated to sucking life out of kids and ruining social lives!” Your throat feels sore from all that yelling, and you’re worried that you’ve pissed your teacher off, and she’s going to come after you with all her brain juice-sucking implements and drill holes in your head.   
On your way back from school, you feel even worse, and not only because you’ve just been sent to the office and rewarded with another week of detention in a broom closet for “harassing a perfectly innocent teacher”. Your crush saw you shouting at his favorite teacher, and is now on his BMX, en route home to post you on his out list for at least a month.
Life’s just dandy, isn’t it?
So whatever, there’s really no end to the pain and torture you’re going to receive in middle school. Parents, teachers, and peers make everything seem much worse. So get over it already, it’s not like you’re going to survive, unless you become a caffeinated crackhead like your parents.
And I guess I’ve said it all here, and I’ve tried to make everything as truthful as I could. You really didn’t have to read about my crappy life, but since you’ve gotten here already, I guess it’s too late.







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