Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Sure, I'll post.

It's vacation, and I should be cheerful: I'm done with the college application process (for now), it's sunny and getting closer to spring, second trimester is almost done, and I'm sitting at home in my pajamas drinking tea. How nice that I'm relaxing, right?

Uh, no. Actually, I'm in a bad mood, and I'm nervous. There is no relaxing happening here. Why am I not relaxing, you ask? Well, I'll tell you: HOMEWORK OVERLOAD.

I have a twelve-page paper due at the end of this vacation. I have a German presentation that must get completed as well as one in AP Environmental Science, I have to write a second English paper, and write multiple entries in a journal on Invisible Man.  I also have to take a full AP Calculus practice test, which my teacher will check. Oh, wait- I have to study for a math test that I'm taking on Monday, too, and make up the days of work I missed in AP Environmental Science. 

What. The. Fuck.

This is vacation. Vacation means a period of suspension of work, study, or other activity, usually used for rest, recreation, or travel (says my dictionary). Vacation means blissful boredom. Vacation means hanging out with your friends until you hate them. Vacation means forgetting about how shitty school is by doing pointless shit. 

This is no vacation.

Since I have so much work, I am forced to model my vacation days after our awful school days. I wake up, feeling guilty like I always do when I haven't done all my homework. I mentally plan out my day. From 8:30 to 10:00 I'll work on my paper. From 10:05 to 11:05 I'll practice my violin. From 11:10 to 12:00 I'll contemplate killing myself. And so on. The afternoon progresses, I go on a run, and then it gets dark. And I've done less work than I should have, and I still feel guilty. 

Also: you'd think my teachers would be supportive of me during this non-vacation. You'd think they'd at least bake me a week's supply of brownies and give me their cell phone numbers while saying, "Look, if you need my help with anything, I'll be by my phone 24/7. Try to relax." Nope. Not a word. They avoided my eyes like the plague in class, and when the E Period bell rang on Friday they all sprinted out of the building, leaving me directionless and swamped.

I have this one teacher. Let's call her "Anna Levine," which is my name, so you'll never know her real name. I approached her last week before lunch and kindly said, "Ms. Levine, I need help with this paper. I want to write something original, but so much has been previously covered I don't know where to start! I need a week's supply of brownies to write this monster!" 

She responded as such: "You don't need to write anything original! I can't help you! Go eat lunch, it's 8:00 A.M!" And she slammed the classroom door in my face. Well, it wasn't quite like that, but you get the basic idea. No support. No help. I'm just supposed to lug fifty pounds of marked-up paper to school on my back on Monday, distribute it, and then it will be graded by my "teachers." You know, those adults with name tags who talk at us for about two minutes at the beginning of English class and then make us journal in silence for the rest of the period. 

Enough. I need to get back to recording literary symbols in a little blue book. 

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