#grumpy teen

[arting-stories]

Tried drawing a hardcore lioness - ended up with a fat, grumpy adolescent lion instead named Mr. Chubs.

[iris-black13]

UGH

Why would anyone want to watch morning talk shows instead of cartoons or sci-fi/horror masterpieces?

[wandering-tangents]

Story time: Junior year of high school. Let's stop right there. JUNIOR YEAR of high school. I'm 17 years old. And I am an angsty introvert. In a school with 2000+ students. And I'm "the new guy." 

I do NOT want to be there.

My goal for the last two years of high school was to fly under the radar. No social stuff, no parties, I just want it done and over with so I can cut my ties, and move onto college without having to have the pretense of trying to keep up with everyone.

That did NOT work.

No friends, no outlet. No one to realize how angry I was, how lonely I was. Which, in turn, made me angrier and lonelier.

The one guy who DID seem to notice me was this idiot in American Literature class. I believe that everyone has their own little niche of intelligence. I know people who can talk your ear off for hours about music history, but know nothing about biology, and I have other friends that are the same, only visa versa. THIS douche canoe was no different.

His area of intelligence was how to piss me off.

Now, you're probably thinking "Dude, he probably wasn't that bad." In response to that, I would like to inform you that the first time we had a homework assignment, he told me "If you give me the answers for homework, I'll be your friend."

This is junior year of high school. Eleventh grade. How he managed to GET to eleventh grade is beyond me. That was our introduction to each other at the beginning of the year, and I was decidedly not impressed.

Fast forward to April. Imagine your typical kid going through puberty. All the emotions, all the hormones, all the angst, all the SHIT that teens get when they go through that magical time called puberty.

Now, imagine all that, with no outlet. No relief.  Within six months, I was nothing more than a rolling ball of RAGE.

So, in April, I had a test in American Lit. Tests in that class were a two-day ordeal, presided over the scariest, crankiest, oldest albino teacher on God's green Earth. We were allowed to have a dictionary on our desks, as the dictionaries contained nothing that would help our essay material, just our spelling. And our teacher believed that there was no excuse for poor spelling.

Pay attention to that dictionary, it's going to be important.

And I was sick for the first day. It wasn't THAT big of a deal. The teacher had a policy that if we WERE sick on the first day, we should get the prompt for the essay from another student. Which I did. (God bless Myspace.)

I walk in the next day, and I feel like a warrior. My enemy is this essay. I know the material forward and backward. I know the themes, I know the characters, I KNOW EVERYTHING. I will look at this essay, and I will show it all the mercy it deserves. Which, of course, is none. This essay is my enemy, and my enemies deserve no quarter, and they shall get none.

I'm in the class during our twenty minute break time. The idiot, who I shall refer to as "Jacob" from her on, is one of the first into the classroom, about five minutes before the bell rings. He calls me by my last name, "Wood," as most people do, but I give him no attention. I have far more important things to focus on than one arrogant ignoramus

As I'm focused on my test, scribbling my thoughts down as fast as I am physically capable of, the teacher is passing back tests we had already taken, and gotten graded. I give this no mind, until I hear my name called. After all, I can ignore Jacob, but I literally cannot ignore the teacher. I look up, and the teacher, without thinking, passes my test to Jacob, for him to pass back to me.

Now, I have a theory about grades.

People want to quantify things. Money, and worth, mainly. Which is easy, because those are objective. But things like intelligence and value? That's a bit harder. The closest thing you can use to quantify those are numbers and grades. After all, if I claimed that I was a ten, and you were a two, you would be mildly offended, wouldn't you?

And I hate this part about people. And even more, I hate it when people attempt to quantify ME.

So when Jacob gets a hold of my test, I'm a bit peeved. When he yells out my score for the class, now mostly full, I'm SEVERELY PISSED OFF. When he yells "Wood got an 86! I DID SO MUCH BETTER THAN HIM!"

I snapped like a dry twig.

I dash forward. I have long legs, and a martial artist's build. So when I move, I can move. Before anyone can react, I dash forward, I rip my test out of Jacob's hand, and for good measure, backhand him as I'm turning around.

Now, you're probably wondering how I managed to hit Jacob without the teacher noticing. 

I didn't.

Jacob was easily the most disruptive student in that class. The guy literally would not shut up. Ever. To help curb (not stop, just curb) the problem, the teacher had Jacob sit at the front of the class. Front and center, so that the teacher could give Jacob the Albino Glare, which has common side effects of existential despair, the air temperature dropping by five to ten degrees, and pants-shitting terror.

The teacher was literally a foot and a half away when I hit Jacob. He saw the whole thing.

And he didn't care. I got back to my seat, and he was trying not to laugh. He was doing the whole "I hear no evil, I speak no evil, I see no evil" routine.

Having gotten away with this, I sit down.  And I realize.... That felt good. Hitting another kid who righteously pissed me off felt REALLY GOOD.

So, I cast my prayers to the Universe.

"God? Jesus? Satan? Loki? Kali? Zeus? If anyone is there, please hear my prayer. Just let me smack this dipshit one more time."

From two seats to my left, a kid named Mason leans over. "Wood? Psssst. Wood? I don't think you hit him hard enough."

I look again to the Universe. "Whoever answered that one, thank you very much, your will is clear."

To Mason, I say "I think you're right."

On my desk, lies my dictionary, untouched, as per usual. But on this day, I am happy that I have it. I grab the dictionary, and I take two long strides up the isle. I raise the heavy book behind me, and I spin it down, and around, golfing-style, into the back of Jacob's head. The book makes a VERY satisfying *THUMP* as it connects, and for a split second, I think I hear a hollow echo coming from the empty recesses of Jacob's cranium.

Jacob barely reacts. He kinda rocks back and forth for a second or two from the momentum, but that's it. Then slowly, he raises his hand to massage his head, and he turns around. For a change, the incorrigible chatterbox doesn't say a word. But the look in his eyes makes his meaning clear. "What. The actual fuck. Did you just DO?!?!"'

Mr. Craig is sitting in his chair, laughing his ass off. All of the students are chuckling, because most of them have wanted to do the EXACT same thing to Jacob for the entire year.

The bell rings for class.

Mr Craig gets up, his clipboard in hand, and he starts ticking off roll call. And throughout the entire role call, Jacob will not. Shut. Up.

"Wood's not here! Wood's sick again! Wood's gone! Wood's gone AWOL! Wood is MIA."

He continues, but I'm sure you get the gist.

Jacob turns around to look at me, to see how I'm reacting. I don't. I'm just sitting there. I give him a deadpan, emotionless look. Castiel from Supernatural looks like an out-of-control drama queen diva compared to me. Jacob arches an eyebrow, as if to say "That's it?" In return, I just look at him. No anger. No hate. I am completely in control of myself. And to make sure that Jacob knows, that no, I'm not completely emotionless, I give him a small "Fuck you," to let him know that as little emotion as I have at the moment, all of that scrap of emotion is directed at him, and it is not a positive emotion.

But Jacob, he takes that passionless "Fuck you" entirely too personally. He leaps out of his seat, and takes a step toward me, and shouts:

"STICKS AND STONES CAN BREAK MY BONES BUT WORDS WILL NEVER HURT ME!" I smirk at him.

"Of course words can hurt you. I just hit you with a dictionary."

The class was in stitches. The teacher was on the floor, laughing.

Moral of the story:

That quiet kid that sits in the back, and doesn't talk a lot? Don't screw with him. Because if you press him, he will resort to physical violence, and he will have the perfect one-liner ready to go.

[beckythenotsogreat-blog]

I just want a hug and to be told everything will be alright :-(