Well, it started with a terrible school with a population of about eleven hundred or so, therefore causing me to simply feel like a number; notwithstanding the previous, I wasn't irked by the sheer size of the school. It was the people present and my ex-girlfriend.

The chorus teacher looked like a phenomenally disgruntled David Grohl--and I'm still perturbed by the few bastardly "gangstas" that were admitted into the exclusive choir; they were bottom feeders and I can sing at the volume of an opera chorus member, mind you.

My art teacher was insane. Simply put, insane.

My English teacher was, more or less, and insufferable shrew of a woman. Of course, my English skills lacked considerably during my previous year of high school, which contributed to the grade of a C, but I'm currently proficient with my mother tongue. Then considering that the school's English program consisted merely of a bare-bones structure of "Learn how to write a college-level paper", and ignored all creative potential, surely constituted my animosity toward the school.

Some of the reprobates posted a thread on Facebook; it turned into a heated argument. The reason being for the previous is thus: one of them posted a picture of a starving African child and wrote that it looked like one of their friends, doing such in mockery. I was appalled, and made my attitudes known. I truly thought they would jump me the following day; luckily, such had not transpired.

I have never had a more religiously intolerant math class in all my schooling; sure--I'm an agnostic, both now and then, and I respected my peers' views when conversation would drift to religious institutions, but they thought me an insufferable *****--especially the daughter of a pastor...

My history teacher was the only person I truly admired in that conglomerate of a 'school experience'...he pushed me toward proper intrigue, philosophy and logic; I have him to thank that I've become a reasonable individual who tries his very best to exhibit virtuosity.

Over the Summer of my Freshman year (the overview of that year detailed above), I moved to my father's house in the city. My mother, whom I was living with at the time, raised hell about my decision. Somehow--by some miracle, perhaps--she signed the papers to let me live at my father's. As ecstatic as I was, the feeling lasted merely three months into the new school year.

I finally have my place in a chorus class as one of six male singers, and the teacher is absolutely wonderful.

And then my peers can't use English correctly. They should be payed to stay home by our government. The sum total of intelligence would skyrocket if the previous were to be implemented.

Peculiarly, I've been mocked for my intelligence; because I know what a star is made of; because I wish to know how mathematics works; because I know how to pronounce Beethoven (a dumb harpy in my English class mispronounced his name and didn't know who Beethoven was. I have never found the words to articulate that level of frustration exerted in telling her who he was.); because I listen to Vivaldi and Prokofiev (two of my favorite composers); because I hate rap with a burning passion (and I had an altercation with a former "friend of mine" over production of a song--it hasn't ended well. He wanted the sheet music I scribbled down and I know I should have burned it and given him the charred remains. Harsh? Yes--but he represents a culture of intellectual poverty and dishonesty. I can't support such.); because writing is my only outlet for what I have to say; because, finally, now that I'm writing this, someone might stumble upon this like a cast out root from the base of a tree, tripping them and serving the catalyst to investigation.

I've so very much to say; and rarely do I feel I'm truly listened to, rarely understood in intention of why I speak. I wish to indulge in this human vita--and such is purveyed through words and actions.

Every human has their own definition; each given name combined with the family name produces an adjective. Some are nasty or crass, others elegant or prostrate. All encompass an illustrious spectrum grasping at what precisely it wishes to become, coursing through the many languages, philosophical concepts, proverbs and verses of poetry...such is humanity.

Life is the greatest of tapestries, and I shall find my dyes and thread to add to the tail, where the tassels have yet to be sewn.
LucaGrasha LucaGrasha
18-21, M
May 4, 2012