See U In Hell

One:

Whether you believe it or not, we all go somewhere when we die. It doesn't matter if you believe in Heaven, Hell, or if you think that your energy just stays on the Earth forever, watching people through their windows while they watch TV or eat or take a shit or whatever, the point is that we all go SOMEWHERE. That is also the case with life. Sometimes life takes us in a positive direction, other times, not so much.
Mine was the "not so much" direction.
Well, at least for a while.

January 23rd: First day of second semester. THIS is Hell for me: The constant flow of people from classrooms into a too-small hallway that is supposed to accommodate all two hundred and twelve of us but clearly doesn't, the shouting of one social group to another, me having to bend and twist around people that will not get the HELL out of the way.
People say that school is a place for learning and community building. I say that's total shit. Looking at it from a student's point of view, school is about sharing on Snapchat, and the things that come along with it, i.e.: Nudes, pornos, pics of minors getting "blazed", "lit", "high", whatever you wanna call it. I mean, it's not all bad, but when you launch an app aimed at the teenage population that lets you send pictures to complete strangers and they can only be seen for a few seconds until they're gone is like saying: "Hey, we don't care what the law says! If some sixty-year-old pervert wants to look at twelve-year-old tits all day, who are we to stop him?"
One thing that I have learned about school: Not Y=MX+B, not past tense Spanish verbs, and certainly not how many people had their heads chopped off during the French Revolution. I did learn, however, a few key tips on surviving in the real world, because although adults say that high school is easier than the real world, I can tell you that it's honestly about the same, if not worse.
Number one, and probably the most important rule: If you want to talk to someone, don't just go up and start talking to them. You have to take a series of steps beforehand, such as: Making sure that the person isn't a total weirdo who won't try to get you to the back of the school and either bang with you or sell you pot. Secondly: Find out what social group they're in. If you get caught talking to the wrong person from the wrong social group, then it's game over for you, buddy. Third: If you do end up talking to them, try a test conversation. Maybe a little something like: "Hey, saw your music video on Twitter, it was really cool." And if they respond with: "Thanks! Do you wanna come to our concert next Friday?" Then they're probably good. But if they respond with something like: "You saw it? Wow, now I know that only the general scum looks at my shit," Then steer clear. Trust me, you don't need that kind of shit frosting on your cupcake.
The next rule on my list covers how to deal with (most) teachers: The way I see it, teachers are like robots. No offense to any teacher that might be reading this right now, but it's true. The only difference between the dusty bifocal-wearing, lip lickers is what subject they teach. You can't walk into a classroom on the first day of any school year expecting to actually have an impact made on your life by the caring heart of the teacher because I promise you that in most cases it does not exist. There are some rare cases out there that actually care if the students live or die, and if they aren't slipping into long periods of depression solely based on the fact that they can't conform to the rigorous and demanding curriculum that they have per-planned for every human being that happens to be on their roster before the first day begins. See, the thing with teachers, much like robots, is that you can (usually) program your way into the top spots, by, say, bringing them food, or filling up the Keurig in the corner of the room. It doesn't matter if you sit in the front row of the room every day, or even if you save up all your bathroom passes till the end of the semester, just make sure that you do little things throughout the weeks to make sure that it doesn't look like you're trying to be a kiss-ass, but to make sure that they get the hint to turn a blind eye whenever you eat in class or look at a quick porno or two.
Also, if you haven't noticed by now, I am very blunt, so if you have a problem with it, remember that it's my story and not yours so I will write it however I see fit and if you don't like it, well, you can just skedaddle on outta here.
Anyway, where were we?
Ahh yes, tools for survival. Well to tell you the truth, those were really the only ones that I have, or at least the only ones that kept me from physically and socially dying. There will be a few tips sprinkled here and there throughout the rest of this somewhat satirical story, so be on the lookout for those. But otherwise...
Away we go.

"Did you get the syllabus signed?" kate asks, pulling out a crinkled blue sheet from her backpack.
"Shit," I whisper under my breath. "I was up late last night, I musta forgot..."
"Fanfiction?"
"How'd you know?"
"Uh, maybe because I've known you for years. I know you like that smutty shit..." She smiles knowingly, sticking her tongue out slightly.
"Well, you're not wrong..."
"I know," She says, folding the paper and running it over the edge of the table to straighten it out. "Want me to forge the signature for you?"
"I don't know... You sure you know my mom well enough to actually, like, DO that?"
"C'mon, bitch. I've forged a LOT of signatures in my lifetime. I'm sure I could do your moms. Isn't it just like a check mark and then a Z?"
"Yeah..."
"Then hand that shit over before Peddy sees!"
I roll my eyes and quickly slide the sheet of paper over to her. She unfolds it, and holds the pen to the paper, just like mom would. A check mark and a Z later, and it's done. Almost an exact replica.
Almost.
She gets up, and turns our papers into the fourth period slot that's shoved against the wall. She turns around and turns away from Peddy, flashing me the thumbs-up sign.
See, the thing with Peddy, is that's not actually his real name. His REAL name is Mr. Larson, but everyone calls him Peddy, short for pedophile. A few years back, there was this rumor that he banged a seventh grade girl in the supply closet in the back of the room. No one knows if it's true for sure, but he sure does look the part. He's got long, slicked back black hair with a bald patch in the back, and a mustache that makes him look like a rat. But not just any rat. Like, a sewer rat. He smells like it, too: Like shit, piss, and old food.