Your minding your own business when an art folder becomes a fence at your knees and you become the horse. The annoyed crack their verbal whip “If you don’t get a move on I swear to-” before they can finish the idiots charge like in a riot into everyone’s rear end.
The multitude of sweaty armpits and stale lynx urges you forward, like you’re hovering, you sweep along, feet not touching the floor.
BAM! blackness. Your cheek pressed against a locker with the word MOIST carved into it. The cheap aluminium absorbs the red on your cheeks as you try to look graceful in front of your crush however the peace doesn’t last for long. Your bag anchors you in the opposite direction. You slide in some chip mush and everyone’s surfing in the black hole of hormones.
You see a light at the end of the tunnel, but it begins to fill with whiny dwarves who think they’re better than everyone else (A.K.A Year 7). They flood towards you and, like the forming of a volcano, the sides clash and crevices you didn’t know existed are endangered by toxic, molten sweat.
Just your average day at Neston High School. Maybe a tad exaggerated.
productive procrastinating 