Added: Jul 29, 2010

From: yakutiya

Duration: 0:5

:) You like this? . . . "Sophie, go unpack your boxes" and that's my father, screaming from the kitchen. I sigh and get hold of all my belongings; shoes (Jimmy Choo), tops (DG), bags (Gucci, Luis Vuitton, Prada...) and bottoms (everything else). I wonder if they have malls here... OMG, I have no idea what I'm up against. After a possible three hours of unpacking and arranging, my room looks kind of decent. Of course, I didn't have much to work with; the bedroom is half of what I had back in New York. I look at my watch (Guess, no less): 11 o'clock. That's lovely. I have eight hours left 'till the beginning of the end of my life. Youpi! I'm gonna puke. . . . "I'm out." I yell, rushing out the door. No, I am not excited for my first day of school. I don't get how people can always be giddy and nervous about the first day. I mean, it's not like it's there first time. After going through it nine times, the rush ends and the reluctance settles in. That's how I feel; reluctant. I could ever well skip the day and spend it... yeah, that's not so easy. Back in New York, I could spend my days at Central Park, drinking a latte from Starbucks while listening to my Ipod under a shady tree. Here, well... that's not so simple. "Have a great day sweetie" My mom cries out, but I'm already out the door. The reason why I'm rushing is because I just don't want to be stuck in the midst of an awkward conversation about school. I'm not up to it. Got my period last night, so I'm kind of cranky. Not to be messed with, that's for sure. I could walk... but then again, I'm girl who's known for her remarkable entrances. Fuck yeah, I'm taking the Porsche today. I enter my perfect car and place the keys in the ignition. I set the stereo at full blast. 'I Like It' starts blaring up the speakers; god, how I love this song. Everything to get me on my best mood... if that's even possible. At one point, this song was my anthem; A boost to start my day. Alas, now my boost consists of a calendar. A calendar and a countdown to our next moving day. According to my calculations, we could be out of this hellhole by March. That leaves me... oh sweet jesus, 7 months. I'm gonna cry. Did I mention that I hate my life? Yeah? Good. . . . According to my trusty GPS,in a mile I will have arrived. As I turn the curb, I catch a glimpse of Mariste High. Oh bloody mary... this is not going to be good. A brown, brick building. That's it. Oh, and a shed. A fucking shed? You know what... I don't even want to know. I park my prized possession near a tree. It sort of reminds me of Central Park... minus the Starbucks, the busy streets, the blazing sun and the hotties playing football. Hey, I got to work with what I got. I see students gawking at me. Nice... this is just lovely. I roll my eyes at their not-to-subtle stares and lock my car. With a turn I strut pass the losers and enter the school. Okay, I'm about to vomit. Beige walls... grey lockers; what is this, some kind of prison?! This is pitiful. I am definitely not feeling this. The ceramic floors (That I imagine are supposed to be white) are covered with brown dirt (I hope!). The lockers are so blah. I've got a confession... I've never attended a public school. And quite frankly, up to this point, I'm glad. I wonder if people just burst into songs like high school musical? Wouldn't that be a treat... hello youtube! I brace myself and step forth into the school. People are still staring... lucky me. Maybe, instead of singing, people stare. That's maybe the reason they chose the singing. I mean, who would watch two hours of people staring at eachother. Two words; Bo-Ring. I find my way to the principal's office, where I am given the necessary elements ; a schedule, a couple of books and my locker number. Now, with hands full, I try to pass through the flows of people, in search of my locker. "Need help?" Her voice blasts through my ear. God, she's loud. And peppy. I don't do peppy. "I'm fine" And as if on cue, some idiot pushes me and all my books fall. Wow, cliché much? "I think you need help" She smiles (a bit much) and picks all my books up. Well, as an assistant, she would do the job. Kidding. I mumble a thanks and open my locker. Kind of small for my liking, but at this point, it's the least of my worries. "I'm Melissa. But people always call my Mel. Although in second grade, there was this sort of nickname people were giving me... I think it was ML or maybe MC. But like I said, Mel will do. ML, Mel or Melissa, take your pick..." And the talking never stops! Maybe if I discretely walk away, she won't notice... "What about you?" Crap. Well, that didn't work.

Channel: Entertainment

Rating: 5.0' max='5' min='1' numRaters='1' rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#overall ( ratings)    Views: 399    Comments: 18