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MY WRITING (MOSTLY FROM pf1) |  |
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| I put in a new story and if you dont know it sby PF1 who also does True Politics....which is also my future when-i-can-play-the-guitar-REALLY-WELL band thaty PF2 WILL be in somehow! Even if she is JUST playing the tambourine!!!!!! A DAY IN THE LIFE OF By cheli scott She rolled over in her bed and moaned. She was so exhausted. She glanced at the clock across the room, she really didn’t want to see what time it was. She knew she was late. She rolled onto the floor and using the bedside dragged her self into an upright position. The sky wasn’t even light yet, a cool breeze slipped through her window. She stood up on wobbly legs and walked over to her dresser. Opening it she began tossing clothes over her shoulder, “TO red…To bright…Hmm... Might go with black... Wore it yesterday…is this mine?†Finally, after 4 drawers and a pile forming about her ankles she found a black shirt, black pants, and a black t-shirt with a pink beaded rabbit on the front. It’s not that she didn’t like colors, it’s just that she felt like wearing them would be a misrepresentation of what she felt, which at the time was confused. IT always seemed to cause a stir from SOMEONE at school who couldn’t understand why someone so outgoing would want to wear BLACK. She dressed and then flopped back down on her bed wondering why she even bothered to go to school. It was just another chain that enslaved her to the “traditional†world that encouraged materialism while pushing Christianity’s teaching of not being materialistic. She thought of all the drones that followed it blindly and laughed. She pictured them, dressed in Billabong and Roxy “punk poser†marching for world domination, tripping as they pretend to ride their skateboards into battle. The thought made her giggle and she hopped of her bed remembering why she went through the day, to observe how the world behaved in it’s futile struggle for… she didn’t even know what it was struggling for. She went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked tired. She sped through her morning routine and then dashed downstairs, grabbed her book bag, and was out the door before her mom could slam her with that I-can’t-believe-your-wearing-that-shirt-you-made-yourself-to-school look. Of course, she had missed the bus and she UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES was going to catch a ride with her mom; so she decided to just take the city bus. It was a 15-minute walk to the bus stop but she had to run if she wanted to catch the bus. She took off like a bandit; running at top speed with her spine bending book bag banging painfully against her back; she knew her mom hated her taking the city busses so she was quick to get out of her neighborhood. She just barely made it to the bus and fumbled in her pocket for bus fare. Finally, after the exhausting ordeal was over she found an empty seat and sat down alone (Strategically placing her book bag so that no one would sit next to her). She smiled as she yanked out a pair of headphones and her CD player. This had been the best morning she had had in about 4 weeks. She removed a brush from her purse and began to work on her unruly hair. She liked city busses; she saw the same people she didn’t know everyday; who never talked to her, never tried to make friends with her, and pretty much pretended she didn’t exist. She liked it that way. She got enough attention at school and at home. She could sit and nod her head to the insane beat of Rob Zombie and Static-X and lavish in the confusion that kept her thoughts from monopolizing in her brain. The ride was over all to soon and she packed up her things to prepare for her march to school. It was a short walk and her best friend Liz always managed to catch her before she entered the building. Liz was indeed her best friend. She could always find something to talk about when she talked to her and the thoughts, that usually came out jumbled up and confused when talking to other people, came out clear and were easily understood. She always went in early. She didn’t know why, there were plenty of people to goof off with, but she always avoided them. She dumped her junk in her locker and kicked it closed. Then walked with drooping shoulders to put her stuff in her first bell class. She was suddenly overcome with sadness, she would have liked to cry and let someone comfort her, but the tears refused to come. They remained perched atop her eyelashes stubbornly refusing to fall. She set her things down and went off to wander. She looked around and saw all the groups of friends giggling and laughing. She wanted to join them but at the same time she wanted no part. She finally found a smaller group of people she knew and blended in. Out of the corner of her eye she watched people pass, looking for on in particular. Finally, he came. He was surrounded by a mob of laughing boys; apparently he had made a funny joke. She sighed just softly enough so no one could hear then turned away. The bell rang and her day began. Her first class was boring. She sat in the back of the room (as she did in most classes) and doodled pictures to go along with useful sayings, mythical deities, and heroes when she was not busily completing worksheets that she saw no purpose for. It’s not that she didn’t like school or got bad grades, in fact her grades were spectacular. She loved it, or at least she used to. She just didn’t see the point anymore. She had no motivation. Her father called it “burn-outâ€, she figured that’s what it was but by that time she didn’t care anymore. She hadn’t been caring about anything lately. Her mind was in the clouds; she had detached herself from reality (or what people like to call reality). Her next few classes passed in a blur. When it was finally time for lunch she gathered up her things and cheerfully proceeded to Liz’s locker. After meeting up with a few of her other friends, they walked merrily to the cafeteria. She loved lunch. It gave her a chance to goof off (which she did in other classes anyway) and hangout with her friends. She felt like she belonged. Lunch ended as quickly as it came and she packed up her things for her last class. This class was her favorite. Her teacher talked a lot and gave her an escape from the blind busy-work her other teachers bombarded her with. She wrote her best poetry in this class. She sat by a window and the sun usually beat down on her neck making her sleepy and relaxed. Friends who were constantly joking around surrounded her and this made her even more comfortable. The day ended on a good note and she met a few of her friends before hopping on her bus. The bus ride was different. 4 or 5 little kids were continuously screaming and yelling, but this didn’t bother her. Little kids would be little kids. She conversed vaguely with the other student in her grade that rode her bus about this and that. He liked to talk about Psychology. They often argued over the theories of Freud and their relevance to current psychology. She thought they were the basis of all modern psychology and he did not. The bus ride was long and eventless. After arriving home she retreated to her room to avoid her parents at all costs. There was nothing worse than a collision between a tired parent and a rebellious teen (even if they aren’t all that rebellious). She figured it would be safe to come out an hour or two AFTER they had gotten home. Until then she did all of the homework she didn’t think she could do on the bus or in class and attempted to draw the same picture she had been attempting to draw for the last few months. When she felt it was same to come out she decided between practicing her Soccer skills and getting online. She chose to get online. After checking to see who else was online, starting one or two pointless conversations and one that actually had a point, she began her aimless search of sites that viewed life with the same humor and almost cynicism that she did. She stayed online until she told to get off and by that time it she needed to take a shower and get ready for another pointless day that she didn’t really want to go to but at the same time couldn’t wait for. THE END
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This story is a product of my boredom |
