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I always finish the holidays in a pleasantly upbeat sort of mood, then go back to school and fall straight back into whatever I was trying to escape three weeks earlier. In case I didn't make it clear the first hundred or so times, I hate school with a passionate and fiery hatred; I hate uniform and rules and having my red and black scarf confiscated (twice this year already) and timetables and the continuous background noise caused by the drivel spewing out of the mouths of the sixth form. I hate getting up at seven am when I could stay up three hours later and sleep till ten; I hate examination briefings and constant registrations; I even hate my precious library. I don't, actually; I hate that everything else around it conspires to make me hate it when it's the only place I've loved in six years. I hate that everyone else got to bounce off to college and I had to stay.
I find it hard to believe I'm seventeen years old and still get screamed at for wearing the wrong scarf. And the scary, unforgivable feeling is, simply, fuck that; there's nothing they can do to me any more. They can't give me order marks or detentions, they can't write me bad references or bad reports, they can't do a thing to touch me any more and maybe it's time I got out of a place that makes me behave like this.
I had a plan, back in December, about the two modules coming up - I was going to revise such and such an amount, and it would all work out in the end. I had yet another mock this afternoon and I don't know how everything started going so wrong, because it seems so easy to do A-levels when you have to cope with interviews and UCAS on the side, but I'm reaching the conclusion I'm setting myself up for resits. Because Chemistry module four is an hour and a half, I had a half-hour to finish off Section B tonight. I stared at it for half an hour, wrote the answer to one question, crossed it out, began again, drew mechanism, stared.
The other thing I find it hard to believe about being seventeen years old is that I have no money, no job, no boy/girlfriend, no respite from my mother's constant carping, and I'm so pathologically lazy I don't deserve any of the above, I know. The great thing about all this is it's now exactly two weeks until my eighteenth birthday, about which I know nothing. I decided this year not to wait for the day and just get depressed because my family don't care that much. So I broached the subject, being careful to be tactful in stating that it has upset me in previous years that they don't mark the day. They said, "We always get a card."
"I want a cake!" I wailed, pathetically, pathetically, because that is all I am today. Pathetic and useless, awash in a sea of other people expertly spinning employment and education, happily financially empowered and independent, while all I want is a cake for my birthday (I'm a legal adult, which is frankly hysterical), two pennies to rub together and not to be so down deep and hormonal, fucking useless and spoilt.
I find it hard to believe I'm seventeen years old and still get screamed at for wearing the wrong scarf. And the scary, unforgivable feeling is, simply, fuck that; there's nothing they can do to me any more. They can't give me order marks or detentions, they can't write me bad references or bad reports, they can't do a thing to touch me any more and maybe it's time I got out of a place that makes me behave like this.
I had a plan, back in December, about the two modules coming up - I was going to revise such and such an amount, and it would all work out in the end. I had yet another mock this afternoon and I don't know how everything started going so wrong, because it seems so easy to do A-levels when you have to cope with interviews and UCAS on the side, but I'm reaching the conclusion I'm setting myself up for resits. Because Chemistry module four is an hour and a half, I had a half-hour to finish off Section B tonight. I stared at it for half an hour, wrote the answer to one question, crossed it out, began again, drew mechanism, stared.
The other thing I find it hard to believe about being seventeen years old is that I have no money, no job, no boy/girlfriend, no respite from my mother's constant carping, and I'm so pathologically lazy I don't deserve any of the above, I know. The great thing about all this is it's now exactly two weeks until my eighteenth birthday, about which I know nothing. I decided this year not to wait for the day and just get depressed because my family don't care that much. So I broached the subject, being careful to be tactful in stating that it has upset me in previous years that they don't mark the day. They said, "We always get a card."
"I want a cake!" I wailed, pathetically, pathetically, because that is all I am today. Pathetic and useless, awash in a sea of other people expertly spinning employment and education, happily financially empowered and independent, while all I want is a cake for my birthday (I'm a legal adult, which is frankly hysterical), two pennies to rub together and not to be so down deep and hormonal, fucking useless and spoilt.
