  Score one for athletic non-athletes: I got into Zero Hour Conditioning! I literally said the words “Woo hoo!” after I found out. My entire existence is going to change, and I mean that seriously. I now will be forced to actually go to sleep at bedtime, as opposed to lie in my bed and mutter “Spokane sucks” over and over again.
Class starts at seven AM. Melissa and Leigh are in that class. This leaves me with a free period. The overachiever in me desperately wants to take a seventh class, but somewhere in my sanity I know I shouldn’t. I’m like a morbidly obese dieter who knows not to eat that cookie, but wants to so badly. Moving onward; let me do the ceremonious complaining about the “damn” freshmen.
I know, I know, I was not like that last year. Yes, I carried around my schedule, terrified I was going to get lost, for a month. But I did not freak out when my locker didn’t work, I didn’t scream at my friends from across the entire hallway, giggle obnoxiously at everything, or make my sole purpose in life to attend the Mixer. I’m sure there are a lot of freshman who don’t annoy me, but I have yet to actually witness one. Next week is “Hello Week” this, by sheer definition, is lame. If I had any morale in my body, and I seem to be lacking that in my angsty teenage existence, I might be excited for “80s Day”.
But I’m not. Nor am I excited about “twin day”, “sports day”, or “career day”. Speaking of the latter, what the fuck? I am barely able to decide on what jeans to buy, and now I am deciding my career path? I’m guessing that we’re supposed to dress like whatever thing we plan/except on being. But imagine if we were to dress like what we actually will become. The halls would be masses of suffocating software technicians, temps, and assistant managers.
There would definitely be a street walker or fifty. Remember Kid Whose Name I Don’t Know? Well, guess what? His name is Bryce. He’s in my Photography class and he is laaaaame. Basically, he embodies everything I think is wrong with the world. Good Charlotte listener, user of unimaginative profanity, BLIND hater of our president (…because he only hates him because it’s cool to hate him, not because he knows a thing about foreign policy. That I might respect. ), BLIND affinitive for “punk” music (…obviously, not even remotely close to real Punk) It’s so frustrating. There is so much anti-authority, anti-social hierarchy potential there. And it’s all wasted, dwindled down into his hypocritical All-Star wearing feet.
And don’t even get me started on the Homeroom experience today. I basically released all frustration into thirty minuets of Ritalin-needed “ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh!” It was so fourth-grade of me, and now I want to crawl in a hole and die. Much thanks goes to Robin, who appeased my inability to focus by letting me copy her math worksheet. Affectionately… Anna 
