RAAAAAAAGE!

Let me tell you what the situations were:

Lip syncing was today. For those who are wondering, lip syncing is an annual MacRob thing where the four Houses each prepare a couple of dances to some music, and all the dancers lip sync to it. It’s a fun event held on the LAST DAY of Term 3, and everyone loves it because it’s just a good way to wind down and enjoy some dancing.

It was all going great today, and we were pretty much cheering for every dance, not even caring which House it was.

Then, just as Nereids (white) went onstage for their final dance number, which was Yr 12’s “Priscilla Queen of the Desert”, fucking “Umbridge” (Ok, look, still a student, don’t want to be given the firing squad. MacRobbians will know who I mean) gets on stage and, with her stupid ugly voice from her stupid ugly face and said, “Okay girls, the 2nd bell has rung, and you must now all go to your class.”

We couldn’t believe it! Surely she was joking! Surely, with 2 more dances to go (Nereid and Naiads, both of which are Yr 12 dances) she’d let us stay that extra 10 minutes to watch it! Jenko was even up there in her drag, ready to show her fab-ness!

But as we sat there in shocked disbelief, Umbridge said again, “you have been given a time allocation, and it’s run overtime. So go to your classes. The dances will be judged by the ones we’ve seen already.”

At this point, Hoy, who is House Captain of Nereids, went up to Umbridge and said, “Please, everyone’s been working so hard for this can you please just let them dance?”

“I’m sorry, but you have been given a time allocation. You have to go to class now.”

Of course everyone boo’d. And rightfully so.

“How DARE you treat me like that? How DARE you treat your teachers like that! That is completely inappropriate.”

How dare YOU treat us like this? How dare YOU take away something pleasurable from us?

With a rumbling earthquake of discontent, the students stood up and left the hall. On its way passing a crestfallen Naiads, sitting at the back. Steph was crying because the Lady Gaga dance she worked so hard to choreograph, the dance which everyone practised so hard for, won’t even be seen by anyone.

Of course, we went to class and didn’t do any work. We raged about it the entire period.

You know what’s fucking ironic? Because they wouldn’t start until everyone left the hall, the time it took for everyone to leave the hall and go to class would’ve pretty much seen the 2 dances be completed. You know what’s fucking ironic? No one would’ve done anything worthwhile in class, their hearts wouldn’t have been in it.

Lip Syncing has ALWAYS run overtime. NEVER before have we had to go back to class. NEVER before had teachers been insulted that the students were 5 minutes late because they were attending a school event.

I was thinking, gee, ok, the next time Assembly runs over time, which pretty much it does every week, the moment the bell goes everyone should up and leave. Sorry, you were given a fucking time allocation for the assembly which no one pays attention to, so if you run overtime then we’d just have to go.

And yes, I put this on public. I didn’t specify any teacher’s names so they’d be recognized outside of school. So if you want to fucking pull me up at school and tell me that I’ve soiled the “good name” of the school, then know that word-of-mouth is unstoppable. Even if I didn’t write this people would’ve talked about it.

I have lost respect for you, MacRob. I have. I am almost ashamed to say that I will graduate from MacRob because it is no longer something I wear with pride. Don’t get me wrong, I still respect and am proud of the people in it, but the system herself…it disgusts me.

I may have left out some things, and so you may think that I am simply being emotional. But you don’t understand, you had to be there.

Alex.

P.S. Sorry raged so hard I forgot: I met Sneak’s friend “Jaja” today. It was random.

Revisiting a few thoughts

(I haven’t written properly in a long time. So here goes something pretty impromptu.)

She tried to block the sounds out, but the words still formed meaning in her mind. She was bombarded with searing images of failure, of dissatisfaction and felt the unmistakable aftertaste of having brought great shame upon herself and those around her.

She studied her mug carefully. She traced the letters on theĀ  mug for the twentieth time, willing herself not to say or do anything.

But she imagined it. She imagined the feeling in her arms as she smashed the mug down on her face. Skull. Whatever could break many bones. Then maybe the mug would shatter, and she’d have something sharp to play with.

And she could imagine the initial shock on her face. Shock that her own daughter could hurt her. And perhaps shock at finally realizing that she’d lost her daughter for a long time.

She continued studying her mug. The small bumps of Homer Simpson’s speech bubble barely registered under her fingertips. And still the bombardment of shame and guilt attacked her ears. She didn’t even need to listen to what her mother was saying; it was the old spiel, the familiar speech of failure.

She became aware of how close she was to completely changing her life. In one swift movement and moment, her mother could be unconscious and dying on the floor, and she would stand over the bleeding body. Would she smile at the much delayed release? Or would she feel horror at what she’d done? If it was horror, it wouldn’t be that she hurt her mother, but that there would be lawful consequences.

She started planning what she’d do. After mashing her mother’s head in (she’d use the tile floor if she had to) she’d run downstairs. Her dad wouldn’t be home yet, so she’d have to tap out some sort of message to her friends, to the people that actually matter to her. She’d detail in that message how sorry she was it had to be like this, and that no one should be put to blame but her. She’d detail that her actions were solely by the influence of her mother.

She’d say goodbye, because she wouldn’t want to remain to allow her mother the pleasure of media attention. And surely there will be; a daughter doesn’t kill a mother often, and the news will be all over it. She doesn’t want her mother to be able to plead with her simpering ugly face that her own flesh and blood and turned against her, and she didn’t want to be portrayed as the bad guy. She wasn’t the bad guy.

Then she’d run back upstairs. She has to be quick. If her mother’s still alive then she would dial OOO. So she has to be fast.

She’d open the top drawer in the kitchen. There was one in there that her dad always kept sharp for cutting meat. In fact, she’d recently been nagging her dad to keep it sharp.

She’d planned it. She’d even envisioned it in her mind a million times.

It would hurt yes, but the satisfaction would be anaesthetic enough.

And then she put down her mug, stood up, and walked away. She went downstairs, calmly opened a new email, and sat there and wrote all of the things that ran through her mind to her friend. She cried while doing it, but she didn’t stop typing until she was done. Then she hit send, and with it buried away the feeling of being utterly trapped. It will come back again, but until then she can just keep sending it out.

Alex.