Hello!
We've had a busy week here at About Face Theatre. If you haven't heard the latest, go to www.aboutfacetheatre.com to catch up. These are difficult economic times, and we're finding ourselves in dire need of financial support from our wonderful fans, friends, and community. To learn more about how you can help, join our Facebook group ("Save About Face Theatre!") and visit http://facethefuture.blogspot.com. We'd love to have all our contest entrants post videos about why AFT is important to you!
And now, on to some important business: announcing our contest winners!
Please join us in a virtual round of ecstatic applause for CONTEST ENTRY #3, by Elaine Llerena and CONTEST ENTRY #12 by Mitch Salm!
And now: please join us in a second round of ecstatic applause for EVERY ENTRY ON THIS BLOG! We love you for contributing, we love your Stupid Kids stories, and we'd LOVE to see you at one of the remaining performances of STUPID KIDS at the Center on Halsted. Visit www.aboutfacetheatre.com for details, and call 773-784-8565 or enter code STUPIDSWEET online for an awesome 2-for-1 offer.
Thanks again to all of you.
Big love from About Face Theatre
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
CONTEST ENTRY #13
Sirens in the Distance
By John Kaufmann
There was a window in the high school library, looking into a study room, and Rebecca was inside, studying alone. I remember pointing her out to my friends. “She looks like a witch,” I said. And she did. With naturally tightly cured, naturally light, light-blonde hair, pale-white skin and long, black-painted fingernails, she did look like a witch. The environment where I saw here didn’t help. She was in my AP English class, where we read spooky novels of repressed love and stark punishment of sin. A class for which we’d been assigned gravestone rubbing along with our readings. Rebecca even dressed in all-black Nathanial Hawthorne chic. But it was a personal style, not a class assignment.
My friends and I laughed partly out of admiration. We were stupid kids, band and drama geeks at the bottom of the food chain. She seemed to exist outside of the food chain. We struck up a friendship over the course of the semester.
Rebecca was in the theatre club. She did costumes or backstage assignments. At the Hamlet cast party, she was the one who held me as I barfed, and even gave me a toothbrush. I don’t remember where we were. But it was a magical place with no other people. Vomiting out in a yard, and then into an empty house. Then, and at other times, I remember that she really wanted to have sex with me. Instead, we would just fool around and watch Cure videos. She loved Robert Smith so much. Rebecca skipped senior year of high school and went to college early, but we stayed in touch. I’d never seen her parents, and she moved into her own place before she was done with high school. We had a relationship that was completely under the radar of all my others. I hung out with Rebecca a lot, but my family and friends never heard her name.
It wasn’t really her place. It was her boyfriend’s. I don’t remember his name, but I do remember that he was an ambulance driver with one real leg, and one prosthetic leg. We fooled around when he was at work, at odd hours, that as far as I knew, could be over at any time. We didn’t smoke pot or drink. We talked, watched videos, fooled around.
We lost contact for a year or so when I went to college. We began to correspond through letters. I probably still have some somewhere. I can picture her swirling, oddly-girly-for-a-witch handwriting. She’d had a child, and the one-legged ambulance driver was the father. But the thing was, they’d broken up, and she didn’t want him to know about the child. She loved being a mother, but would shop for diapers and baby food in the middle of the night, for fear of being seen by somebody she knew. She’d moved back in with her mother (who was aware of the child). I had to promise to keep the secret.
This was many years ago, but I guess there is legitimate danger of my outing this. I have never written or spoken of this before, nor have I changed any names. Even if I had, the detail of the one-legged ambulance driver is a give-away. A detail that probably seems fabricated, except to the man himself, who I have never met. Might he be sitting in the audience? To find out tonight that you have a son or daughter… Or maybe you know. You found out in the 20 years or so since Rebecca and I lost touch.
And as these memories come back in sudden spurts of hibernating detail, I question my own sexual connection with Rebecca and thus to the child. Did we have sex? It would have been my first time, as I remember the shame of being a virgin throughout high school. But I remembered we “fooled around.” I remember the light blond hair around her fascinating witch-vagina (All vaginas were fascinating to me back then. Hers may wall have been the first I’d seen or touched). But did my shame of virginity save me from acknowledging a deeper sin? Of forgotten sex? Of fatherhood? Was she protecting me with the midnight trips to Rexall for baby wipes? Was I bewitched? Or, like the characters our class encountered in The Crucible, does my memory frame her as a witch to absolve me of staying in the picture? She did have long, black fingernails and blond hair.
By John Kaufmann
There was a window in the high school library, looking into a study room, and Rebecca was inside, studying alone. I remember pointing her out to my friends. “She looks like a witch,” I said. And she did. With naturally tightly cured, naturally light, light-blonde hair, pale-white skin and long, black-painted fingernails, she did look like a witch. The environment where I saw here didn’t help. She was in my AP English class, where we read spooky novels of repressed love and stark punishment of sin. A class for which we’d been assigned gravestone rubbing along with our readings. Rebecca even dressed in all-black Nathanial Hawthorne chic. But it was a personal style, not a class assignment.
My friends and I laughed partly out of admiration. We were stupid kids, band and drama geeks at the bottom of the food chain. She seemed to exist outside of the food chain. We struck up a friendship over the course of the semester.
Rebecca was in the theatre club. She did costumes or backstage assignments. At the Hamlet cast party, she was the one who held me as I barfed, and even gave me a toothbrush. I don’t remember where we were. But it was a magical place with no other people. Vomiting out in a yard, and then into an empty house. Then, and at other times, I remember that she really wanted to have sex with me. Instead, we would just fool around and watch Cure videos. She loved Robert Smith so much. Rebecca skipped senior year of high school and went to college early, but we stayed in touch. I’d never seen her parents, and she moved into her own place before she was done with high school. We had a relationship that was completely under the radar of all my others. I hung out with Rebecca a lot, but my family and friends never heard her name.
It wasn’t really her place. It was her boyfriend’s. I don’t remember his name, but I do remember that he was an ambulance driver with one real leg, and one prosthetic leg. We fooled around when he was at work, at odd hours, that as far as I knew, could be over at any time. We didn’t smoke pot or drink. We talked, watched videos, fooled around.
We lost contact for a year or so when I went to college. We began to correspond through letters. I probably still have some somewhere. I can picture her swirling, oddly-girly-for-a-witch handwriting. She’d had a child, and the one-legged ambulance driver was the father. But the thing was, they’d broken up, and she didn’t want him to know about the child. She loved being a mother, but would shop for diapers and baby food in the middle of the night, for fear of being seen by somebody she knew. She’d moved back in with her mother (who was aware of the child). I had to promise to keep the secret.
This was many years ago, but I guess there is legitimate danger of my outing this. I have never written or spoken of this before, nor have I changed any names. Even if I had, the detail of the one-legged ambulance driver is a give-away. A detail that probably seems fabricated, except to the man himself, who I have never met. Might he be sitting in the audience? To find out tonight that you have a son or daughter… Or maybe you know. You found out in the 20 years or so since Rebecca and I lost touch.
And as these memories come back in sudden spurts of hibernating detail, I question my own sexual connection with Rebecca and thus to the child. Did we have sex? It would have been my first time, as I remember the shame of being a virgin throughout high school. But I remembered we “fooled around.” I remember the light blond hair around her fascinating witch-vagina (All vaginas were fascinating to me back then. Hers may wall have been the first I’d seen or touched). But did my shame of virginity save me from acknowledging a deeper sin? Of forgotten sex? Of fatherhood? Was she protecting me with the midnight trips to Rexall for baby wipes? Was I bewitched? Or, like the characters our class encountered in The Crucible, does my memory frame her as a witch to absolve me of staying in the picture? She did have long, black fingernails and blond hair.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
CONTEST ENTRY #12
This is my best story.
by Mitch Salm
This is my best story. It’s high school, I don’t know, junior year. And I have this girlfriend who I want to show a romantic evening.
For the first ten years of my childhood, my dad worked at the restaurant, so we got, like, a few hours of dad face-time a day. And it was never during movie time, so my mom picked our movies.
My mom describes herself as a hopeless romantic.
We watched love movies. Sleepless in Seattle. While You Were Sleeping. French Kiss.
I’m horny like every junior, but I’ve also got this romantic streak. I want to take my girlfriend out. And I do. My mom drives us, but that’s okay. We go to this nice Italian restaurant.
I live in a small Wisconsin town, and a nice Italian restaurant in a small Wisconsin town. Hah.
It actually was a nice restaurant.
And the restaurant is great. My mom gets wine, we get water and pizza. But really nice pizza.
Actually it was really nice pizza.
And afterwards my mom takes us back home, and my girlfriend and I—
Okay. Her name’s Sara.
Sara and I get the car—
If we can drive, why did Mom take us to dinner? These questions.
And I take her to the apple orchard overlooking Lake Winnebago. It’s beautiful out. Night. Fireflies dance among brown and green grass, the stars, they’re there.
I remember a moon, too, but the stars and the moon? That’s a bit much.
The skyline of Oshkosh across the lake. It’s warm out and crickets. They’re chirping.
No mosquitoes?
And I made a promise to myself—
Backtrack:
Before the night began, I promised myself I wasn’t going to get physical with her.
Uh huh. Stupid kid.
Too physical, I mean. No gross stuff.
This is a junior talking.
I mean, no body…stuff. Fluids. Maybe light kissing, but no other stuff.
Oops, more backtrack:
Also, I was her first everything. First boyfriend. First kiss. First guy you hold hands with.
Her first everything.
Everything. But it’s romantic and perfect out, and she starts kissing me lightly. Fine. But soon we’re making out, first light, but then heavy, and you know, we are making out hard. And what am I gonna do? I’m a horny high school guy. I’ll f*k tree moss.
Just go—
So we’re making out hardcore, and then she whispers—
“Did you come yet?”
And I say “No I didn’t come yet!” But she doesn’t know. I’m her first everything. She doesn’t know! So I think, a teaching moment. You know, this is a teaching moment. She doesn’t know.
She’s also super Catholic.
You went to a seminary.
Yeah, but I wasn’t super Catholic.
So I say, “No. I did not come yet.” And then I explain to her how a guy comes.
And she takes that—
She thinks, “Oh. This is how to make a guy come. I will make him come now.” So she undoes my pants. And yeah, romance, but what high school guy’s turning this down.
And then—
And then you know, she starts giving—
Giving you—
Giving me a handjob.
But—
BUT I’M HER FIRST EVERYTHING. BOYFRIEND, KISS, EVERYTHING!
Oh shit. You’re her first handjob—
I’m her first handjob. And you know, she’s going at it, sanding my dick, and f*k these fireflies I’m in pain.
But you just told her—
I just told her how to make a guy come. I didn’t ask her to try it on me! And now—
If you don’t come—
She’ll feel like shit! So she’s going and I’m thinking of anything hot I can to make myself come.
Brittney Spears, Christina, ANYTHING. And finally after that walk up Calvary, FINALLY—
You come.
I come.
Now. That’s supposed to be it. End of story. Done. No.
What?
What?
What. Well. I’m watching her, and you know, it’s all over the place. Shirt, shorts, everywhere. It’s all over, and some of it’s on my leg. And what does she do.
Oh god.
Oh god.
She takes her hand. And moves it…toward my leg.
What is she doing.
Oh Christ.
And she picks some of it up. And then. She takes her hand. And puts some of it. On.
What?
My.
NO.
Lips. And she rubs it all over my lips.
And then she takes some more of it. And puts it—
What?
On her lips.
Jesus f*k me.
And then she kisses me.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (etc.)
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (etc.)
That’s my best story.
Oh god.
by Mitch Salm
This is my best story. It’s high school, I don’t know, junior year. And I have this girlfriend who I want to show a romantic evening.
For the first ten years of my childhood, my dad worked at the restaurant, so we got, like, a few hours of dad face-time a day. And it was never during movie time, so my mom picked our movies.
My mom describes herself as a hopeless romantic.
We watched love movies. Sleepless in Seattle. While You Were Sleeping. French Kiss.
I’m horny like every junior, but I’ve also got this romantic streak. I want to take my girlfriend out. And I do. My mom drives us, but that’s okay. We go to this nice Italian restaurant.
I live in a small Wisconsin town, and a nice Italian restaurant in a small Wisconsin town. Hah.
It actually was a nice restaurant.
And the restaurant is great. My mom gets wine, we get water and pizza. But really nice pizza.
Actually it was really nice pizza.
And afterwards my mom takes us back home, and my girlfriend and I—
Okay. Her name’s Sara.
Sara and I get the car—
If we can drive, why did Mom take us to dinner? These questions.
And I take her to the apple orchard overlooking Lake Winnebago. It’s beautiful out. Night. Fireflies dance among brown and green grass, the stars, they’re there.
I remember a moon, too, but the stars and the moon? That’s a bit much.
The skyline of Oshkosh across the lake. It’s warm out and crickets. They’re chirping.
No mosquitoes?
And I made a promise to myself—
Backtrack:
Before the night began, I promised myself I wasn’t going to get physical with her.
Uh huh. Stupid kid.
Too physical, I mean. No gross stuff.
This is a junior talking.
I mean, no body…stuff. Fluids. Maybe light kissing, but no other stuff.
Oops, more backtrack:
Also, I was her first everything. First boyfriend. First kiss. First guy you hold hands with.
Her first everything.
Everything. But it’s romantic and perfect out, and she starts kissing me lightly. Fine. But soon we’re making out, first light, but then heavy, and you know, we are making out hard. And what am I gonna do? I’m a horny high school guy. I’ll f*k tree moss.
Just go—
So we’re making out hardcore, and then she whispers—
“Did you come yet?”
And I say “No I didn’t come yet!” But she doesn’t know. I’m her first everything. She doesn’t know! So I think, a teaching moment. You know, this is a teaching moment. She doesn’t know.
She’s also super Catholic.
You went to a seminary.
Yeah, but I wasn’t super Catholic.
So I say, “No. I did not come yet.” And then I explain to her how a guy comes.
And she takes that—
She thinks, “Oh. This is how to make a guy come. I will make him come now.” So she undoes my pants. And yeah, romance, but what high school guy’s turning this down.
And then—
And then you know, she starts giving—
Giving you—
Giving me a handjob.
But—
BUT I’M HER FIRST EVERYTHING. BOYFRIEND, KISS, EVERYTHING!
Oh shit. You’re her first handjob—
I’m her first handjob. And you know, she’s going at it, sanding my dick, and f*k these fireflies I’m in pain.
But you just told her—
I just told her how to make a guy come. I didn’t ask her to try it on me! And now—
If you don’t come—
She’ll feel like shit! So she’s going and I’m thinking of anything hot I can to make myself come.
Brittney Spears, Christina, ANYTHING. And finally after that walk up Calvary, FINALLY—
You come.
I come.
Now. That’s supposed to be it. End of story. Done. No.
What?
What?
What. Well. I’m watching her, and you know, it’s all over the place. Shirt, shorts, everywhere. It’s all over, and some of it’s on my leg. And what does she do.
Oh god.
Oh god.
She takes her hand. And moves it…toward my leg.
What is she doing.
Oh Christ.
And she picks some of it up. And then. She takes her hand. And puts some of it. On.
What?
My.
NO.
Lips. And she rubs it all over my lips.
And then she takes some more of it. And puts it—
What?
On her lips.
Jesus f*k me.
And then she kisses me.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (etc.)
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (etc.)
That’s my best story.
Oh god.
Monday, February 16, 2009
CONTEST ENTRY #11
Eight am. Groggy. Barely dressed
Lockers slam. Not really impressed
Working through words to say
Shirking blue--high today
Keep the lines and make it real
Win her now--nerves of steel
Stumbling, bumbling shot right down
Falter stutter look like a clown
Rebound back to lunchtime chatter
Pushing around indescribable platter
Quick rush out hop the fence
Stupid kids make no sense
Loosened up take the day
Make it right be ok
Something clicks try again
Hit the mark, score a ten
Bell rings scream on out
Exultation let it shout
Hang with the crew at the usual spot
World is great with you on top
Lockers slam. Not really impressed
Working through words to say
Shirking blue--high today
Keep the lines and make it real
Win her now--nerves of steel
Stumbling, bumbling shot right down
Falter stutter look like a clown
Rebound back to lunchtime chatter
Pushing around indescribable platter
Quick rush out hop the fence
Stupid kids make no sense
Loosened up take the day
Make it right be ok
Something clicks try again
Hit the mark, score a ten
Bell rings scream on out
Exultation let it shout
Hang with the crew at the usual spot
World is great with you on top
Thursday, February 12, 2009
CONTEST ENTRY #10
STUPID KIDS
by Sharon Madanes
Acrylic on Canvas, 6' x 8', Party at the Art Barn
Copper Plate Etching, 12 x 16, The Norfolk Kidos
by Sharon Madanes
Acrylic on Canvas, 6' x 8', Party at the Art Barn
Copper Plate Etching, 12 x 16, The Norfolk Kidos
CONTEST ENTRY #9
One True Love
It all started in First Grade, when this girl became a nerd. Christmas, 1997, I do recall. She was given a book, but it was not just any book. It was the book that would change her life.
It was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
She was so small, so innocent, and had so much to offer. She could have been the most popular kid in school. She could have attended hundreds of parties by now. But no. Harry Potter grabbed hold of her heart and never let go. She was wholly and irrevocably in love and nothing could get in the way. They were so happy together in those young, halcyon days. By the fifth book's release, she was ready to stand in line for hours in the rain just to get my hand on a copy. She soaked in everything – Harry's Quidditch games, Fred and George's pranks, Ron and Hermione's subtle romantic advances, Hagrid's tragic past… their struggle was hers, and she shared their triumphs.
However, this makes for a very lacking social life. No one wants to party with the girl who spends six nights out of seven on internet forums for her favorite book series, discussing the presence of Nargles in the present-day forests of England. No one wants to gossip with the girl whose only crush was the dorkiest boy in the dorkiest series: Neville Longbottom. No one wants a sleepover with the girl who tried to coax an owl into her garage to try to attach a letter and send it to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's headmaster when she turned 11.
No, life was different for this girl. She spent most summers alone. She couldn't help it that her small-talk was all Potter-centric, it was her passion. And it expanded. She read frequently and feverishly. Anything she could get her hands on. Books that the librarian called "Young Adult" were too childish. Books couldn't be borrowed from the school library: that place so infested with books for the illiterate. She had to venture to the Big Girl library and read the Animorphs series and the complete works of Avi and Roald Dahl and Louis Sacher. They were her muses, her true loves, closer to her than any peer could be. And she liked it that way.
Friends came and went her whole life, but one was always there for her, always ready to cheer her up at a moment's notice: Harry Potter. Any of the seven in the series could do. They took her away from her high school and into the world that Harry and his friends lived in. The Draco Malfoys of her world were just stupid kids, and she was a valiant Gryffindor, brave and honest and true. There was a whole world in that little book: a world that changed her life forever. From Number 4 Privet Drive to Diagon Alley to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – she followed her real friends.
I was… different back then. Not just different from who I am now, but different than my peers. I try hard to "fit in," to play the roles given to me, but on the inside I just want to curl up and be myself. I want people to like that part of me – the part that would rather read a book than go out, the part that enjoys intellectual conversation instead of asking "How drunk were you?" when speaking to peers. I want to be accepted; fully accepted, unquestioned, loved. It'd be nice to find at least one person – male or female; it doesn't matter – to share everything with.
And people claim to and try to understand, but I know they don't. So I just hide my best friend, my true love. I mask him and push him aside and put up with other people. But when I am alone, or when I am exceptionally upset, I know where to turn. I know who will embrace me with open arms, who will make me feel incalculably better.
That person is – and will always be – Harry Potter.
It all started in First Grade, when this girl became a nerd. Christmas, 1997, I do recall. She was given a book, but it was not just any book. It was the book that would change her life.
It was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
She was so small, so innocent, and had so much to offer. She could have been the most popular kid in school. She could have attended hundreds of parties by now. But no. Harry Potter grabbed hold of her heart and never let go. She was wholly and irrevocably in love and nothing could get in the way. They were so happy together in those young, halcyon days. By the fifth book's release, she was ready to stand in line for hours in the rain just to get my hand on a copy. She soaked in everything – Harry's Quidditch games, Fred and George's pranks, Ron and Hermione's subtle romantic advances, Hagrid's tragic past… their struggle was hers, and she shared their triumphs.
However, this makes for a very lacking social life. No one wants to party with the girl who spends six nights out of seven on internet forums for her favorite book series, discussing the presence of Nargles in the present-day forests of England. No one wants to gossip with the girl whose only crush was the dorkiest boy in the dorkiest series: Neville Longbottom. No one wants a sleepover with the girl who tried to coax an owl into her garage to try to attach a letter and send it to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's headmaster when she turned 11.
No, life was different for this girl. She spent most summers alone. She couldn't help it that her small-talk was all Potter-centric, it was her passion. And it expanded. She read frequently and feverishly. Anything she could get her hands on. Books that the librarian called "Young Adult" were too childish. Books couldn't be borrowed from the school library: that place so infested with books for the illiterate. She had to venture to the Big Girl library and read the Animorphs series and the complete works of Avi and Roald Dahl and Louis Sacher. They were her muses, her true loves, closer to her than any peer could be. And she liked it that way.
Friends came and went her whole life, but one was always there for her, always ready to cheer her up at a moment's notice: Harry Potter. Any of the seven in the series could do. They took her away from her high school and into the world that Harry and his friends lived in. The Draco Malfoys of her world were just stupid kids, and she was a valiant Gryffindor, brave and honest and true. There was a whole world in that little book: a world that changed her life forever. From Number 4 Privet Drive to Diagon Alley to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – she followed her real friends.
I was… different back then. Not just different from who I am now, but different than my peers. I try hard to "fit in," to play the roles given to me, but on the inside I just want to curl up and be myself. I want people to like that part of me – the part that would rather read a book than go out, the part that enjoys intellectual conversation instead of asking "How drunk were you?" when speaking to peers. I want to be accepted; fully accepted, unquestioned, loved. It'd be nice to find at least one person – male or female; it doesn't matter – to share everything with.
And people claim to and try to understand, but I know they don't. So I just hide my best friend, my true love. I mask him and push him aside and put up with other people. But when I am alone, or when I am exceptionally upset, I know where to turn. I know who will embrace me with open arms, who will make me feel incalculably better.
That person is – and will always be – Harry Potter.
CONTEST ENTRY #8
Undeniably Me
“Wooooooah! I never meant to brag! But I got him where I want him now! Woooah it was never my intention to brag! To steal it all away from you now!” Yes, it is nice to wake up to your favorite song every morning…but that doesn’t mean that mornings are any easier. I groan as I realize the day has begun, remembering everything and everyone I have to put up with. Awesome.
I stumble to turn on the light as I am instantly blinded by its uncomfortable glow. With my eyes closed I find my outfit I had picked out the night before, as I pull the chiffon top over my bed head. I then stroll down the cold hallway to my bathroom and OW!! There’s a door in front of it. For got about that. I glace at the clock and realize there is no time to make myself look “pretty”, because I have a stupid bus to catch.
With my infuriating mother yelling after me to pay attention in class I sprint down the street and climb on the fart reeking bus. My best friends are there to greet me, but calling it a greeting is lying because all we can manage to do it smile. I shove my headphones in my ears and check out for a while as the bus shakes and wheezes on to Shawnee mission wonderful. Then bus stops after a while, and I peel open my eyes, as I mumble a string of curse words. We all get off the bus and walk into the fiery hell hole, as my eyes fall on a few couples cuddling by lockers. Ugh. I finally reach the fith floor, where all the sophomores are, and my friend goes to her boyfriend for their morning hello. Honestly I would rather die than put up with this. Being one of the only single people in my large group of friends is incredibly degrading on many levels. Everybody has a somebody, but the fugly me. This fact eats at me in a way that’s not normal, and makes me desperate, and tear up. “Carly, are you ok?” my annoying friend asks. Crap. “Yeah dude I’m fine…just didn’t do any homework.” Which was true but would never bring me to tears. “ You sure? Its not good for you to bottle things up. Remember what happened last time?” Memories of me screaming into a pillow, sobbing, hitting things and shaking on the floor flash through my head. I shudder at the fact that I might just be crazy. “ I know…but I’m gonna be late. See ya.”
I run to my first hour and sit down in my study skills class. They don’t teach you study skills at all. Its just a study hall for kids who have an IEP and need “extra help” as the aggravating paras called it. Whatever just tell me I’m stupid, it would save me a lot of worry. After 10 seconds of sitting down, a para lady marches over to me and shoves a piece of paper in my face of all the stuff I’ve failed in the past week. “Work harder!” she scream whispers. “Certainly” I say with a smirk. Nothing bugs me more than having an IEP and have paras in the majority of my classes. Once again for “extra help.” Yeah I am a little spacey and have to take ADD medication but am I a mentally disabled person? I don’t know for sure, but I know I’m not sever.
“Wooooooah! I never meant to brag! But I got him where I want him now! Woooah it was never my intention to brag! To steal it all away from you now!” Yes, it is nice to wake up to your favorite song every morning…but that doesn’t mean that mornings are any easier. I groan as I realize the day has begun, remembering everything and everyone I have to put up with. Awesome.
I stumble to turn on the light as I am instantly blinded by its uncomfortable glow. With my eyes closed I find my outfit I had picked out the night before, as I pull the chiffon top over my bed head. I then stroll down the cold hallway to my bathroom and OW!! There’s a door in front of it. For got about that. I glace at the clock and realize there is no time to make myself look “pretty”, because I have a stupid bus to catch.
With my infuriating mother yelling after me to pay attention in class I sprint down the street and climb on the fart reeking bus. My best friends are there to greet me, but calling it a greeting is lying because all we can manage to do it smile. I shove my headphones in my ears and check out for a while as the bus shakes and wheezes on to Shawnee mission wonderful. Then bus stops after a while, and I peel open my eyes, as I mumble a string of curse words. We all get off the bus and walk into the fiery hell hole, as my eyes fall on a few couples cuddling by lockers. Ugh. I finally reach the fith floor, where all the sophomores are, and my friend goes to her boyfriend for their morning hello. Honestly I would rather die than put up with this. Being one of the only single people in my large group of friends is incredibly degrading on many levels. Everybody has a somebody, but the fugly me. This fact eats at me in a way that’s not normal, and makes me desperate, and tear up. “Carly, are you ok?” my annoying friend asks. Crap. “Yeah dude I’m fine…just didn’t do any homework.” Which was true but would never bring me to tears. “ You sure? Its not good for you to bottle things up. Remember what happened last time?” Memories of me screaming into a pillow, sobbing, hitting things and shaking on the floor flash through my head. I shudder at the fact that I might just be crazy. “ I know…but I’m gonna be late. See ya.”
I run to my first hour and sit down in my study skills class. They don’t teach you study skills at all. Its just a study hall for kids who have an IEP and need “extra help” as the aggravating paras called it. Whatever just tell me I’m stupid, it would save me a lot of worry. After 10 seconds of sitting down, a para lady marches over to me and shoves a piece of paper in my face of all the stuff I’ve failed in the past week. “Work harder!” she scream whispers. “Certainly” I say with a smirk. Nothing bugs me more than having an IEP and have paras in the majority of my classes. Once again for “extra help.” Yeah I am a little spacey and have to take ADD medication but am I a mentally disabled person? I don’t know for sure, but I know I’m not sever.
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