Worst memory: Getting made fun of when I was a freshmen/sophomore.
(Possibly) Best memory: Seeing a screaming girl running down a hallway with her hair on fire.
Best: never getting caught at anything felonious because I was an honor student, all the fights I witnessed, and Junior/Senior War Week (otherwise known as "Homecoming")
We (about 75% of the senior class) intended to spray the juniors with silly string and to assault them with bouncey balls as we left the homecoming pep rally. I think the faculty knew because they rearranged the usual seating to put the freshmen beside us instead of the juniors. We quickly changed our plan to vandalize the freshmen. Coach Principal always dismissed the upper classes first. We'd walk right past them, why not? We cheered and chanted and shook our hidden cans of silly string through the rally.
After the allotted time, Coach Principal took the microphone to give everyone some final words. He complimented everyone on their spirit then told the freshmen and sophomores to beat it. The teachers and staff moved their huddle across the gym and a biology teacher addressed the juniors about some requirement. Coach Principal focused his gaze on us. The juniors and some teachers exited, the rest came to stand in front of our bleachers. For about 3 minutes, they congratulated us and praised us for "making it".
They barely finished when we let them have it. Only a few people used the bouncey balls, but we covered them in string. I squirted Coach Principal directly on the back of his bald, spotted head while he roared into a walkie talkie. The volleyball coach tried to calm everyone with a blue chunk dangling over his ear. The commotion spilled into the commons area outside the gym, where we treated the trophy cases and benches fairly.
Some of the freshmen and sophomores tried to participate on their way to classes. Most of us wanted them to leave, but someone gave them a few cans. They created a small stampede on the second floor in which a math teacher broke her wrist and ankle trying to stop them. We kept our mess downstairs but Coach Principal still felt "very disappointed" in us. Our assistant principals tried to make student government clean everything but the janitors thought it was funny enough to send them back to class. Over the rest of the year, several teachers admitted they loved seeing Coach Principal drenched in strings.
We also crazyglued shut all the locks in all the bathrooms and clingwrapped 4 busses.
Worst: sliding down a hill onto a street and ripping open the knee of my favorite jeans. I had a lot of rocks in my skin too.
by thesugargirli don't need to 'harden up', men aren't generally violent toward me. also, i never said all that, you're thinking of someone else. better luck next time!
Ah! I see we have two problems here. The first relates to a colloquialism which in my country is represented as affront to your strength, whether you're a man or a woman. "Harden up" has absolutely nothing to do with gender-based violence: it's an order to fight through your pain and overcome. The term is used by both men and women alike. You may not know that buuuuut.... it's a bit strange that I referenced two torn ligaments and a near-perfect score on an apparatus that puts 1000% of a gymnast's weight on her knees and ankles. Somehow, you derived male-on-female violence from that sports reference.
It should go without saying that the second problem I see is that you believed that I was referring to gender-based violence when I told you to harden the fuck up. Now, why would you go and do a damn fool thing like that? You also went on to triumphantly (?!) cry that men are not "generally" violent towards you, which suggests to me that they have been in the past. Since you linked gender-based violence to the process of hardening up it would appear that there has been a domestic situation in which you were enfeebled, beat down and cowed at the hands of a male. Go ahead and deny it. You tried so desperately to deny my first analogy about your desperation to reclaim power and status as a woman, only to fuck the whole thing up with your original post on this thread. This process of denial is quite common amongst women who, raised in a society which condemns victims, are desperate to see themselves as survivors and sometimes, as conquerors. You'll end up whining about your bruises sooner or later, just like when you manically raved about Queen B (she killed you academically, didn't you? And she wasn't that pretty - go on - say it! She was FUCKING UGLY! SHE WAS A SLUT! You have NO IDEA why all the boys liked her and not YOU, when you're just SO BEAUTIFUL on the inside! It's okay. You're on an anonymous forum. The only people who're going to call you out on your trip-ups here are your fellow forum members.). Were you by chance under the influence of alcohol when you wrote your first post on this thread? Or perhaps diazepam?
To be a conqueror, you must first conqueror your own fears. And trust me, there's a lot of them.
Which brings me to my next point. I appreciate that you tried to divert the topic of conversation by, strangely, bringing it back to what your title suggested it would be based on. And this is a strange occurrence on this forum. Usually, people wander off on tangents when shit is posted here. You were keen on bringing us all back to the original topic (and your next "memory" was far more realistic than your first. Don't even think that no one noticed that).
This tactic has not worked. If anything it's reinforced your fragility.
You're a joke. The world has beaten you to within an inch of your life and you're still scrambling for what little remains. And you're slipping. Soon your fingertips will slide right off that rock face and you'll fall to an earth-shattering death.
Emotionally, you'll die long before that happens though.
i have no idea what the fuck you're babbling on about, but i think it's really sad that you sat here and wrote me a story..the same person you're supposedly bored by. i don't need you scrutinizing everything i say and trying to compete with me for daddy's attention, GROW the fuck up. or just confront your father about giving you a complex because he didn't seduce you..i don't care! just leave me the fuck alone you sad little man.
by HelenaI'm interested in your obsession with high school. What holds you there?
Magical thinking, that's what. Fantasy fairyland of a kindergarten dropout.
What have you got going for yourself?
It's always "inner beauty" (or what the hell they call that abject lack of any & all redeeming qualities...)
by murderer
by HelenaI'm interested in your obsession with high school. What holds you there?
Magical thinking, that's what. Fantasy fairyland of a kindergarten dropout.
What have you got going for yourself?
It's always "inner beauty" (or what the hell they call that abject lack of any & all redeeming qualities...)
Boom.
Everytime I hear "it's what's inside that counts" I want to laugh and vomit simultaneously. "What's inside" counts for precisely nothing in the rat race. But that magical thinking of TSG's probably got her through two-and-a-half whole years of high school. I'm betting she began each day by standing in front of the mirror and repeating, "Don't worry darling; it's what's inside that counts. They'd all like you if they knew how beautiful you are on the inside. Everyone will like you one day.'
by thesugargirli have no idea what the fuck you're babbling on about, but i think it's really sad that you sat here and wrote me a story..the same person you're supposedly bored by. i don't need you scrutinizing everything i say and trying to compete with me for daddy's attention, GROW the fuck up. or just confront your father about giving you a complex because he didn't seduce you..i don't care! just leave me the fuck alone you sad little man.
I loved this thread. Really, I did. I'm sorry it died, though I'm not surprised.
You were desperate for my attention a few months ago. You begged me for it. When you finally had it, you whimpered away whining that you couldn't understand my explanation of my advice for you, which remains the same in light of this weak response: harden the fuck up.
If you absolutely must bleat about sad things, let's look at the fact that you're on here whingeing and whining about high school, for gawd's sake. Unless you're still there, which is highly possible and I'm starting to consider that possibility more and more likely, get into the present.
And, um, precisely who is competing for Daddy's attention here? I mean, my father was a bit of a player before he met my mother so it IS possible that we're related, but you couldn't possibly know that and neither could I. Did you just let something slip out there? Something that Freud would be interested in?
I'm definitely interested in it now. Just like I'm interested in your obsession with high school. What holds you there? Lemme guess: you'd like a do-over. It's not that you were bullied at high school or anything; nah. You were nothing at high school, and now you're nothing in adulthood. You thought it'd be different. You thought that one day the popular girls would GROW THE FUCK UP and GET OVER THEMSELVES and realize HOW MUCH THEY'RE LOSERS AT LIKE TOTALLY EVERYTHING. Meanwhile, you, on the other hand, would be soaring to success. The nobody that no one liked, on her way to conquer the world by age twenty-five.
Well, this outcome must have been very disappointing for you. Let's take a look at you know. What have you got going for yourself? Are you on an eternal quest for The One like so many other weak-willed women? Are you working a dead-end job for minimum wage, watching your waistline thicken as the years drift by?
I've mentioned this to Thrill before (she becomes hysterical when I scrutinize her, too, but she usually takes at least three days of interrogation to break. You took two posts before you shrieked "Grow the fuck up!"): I love it when people bleat that in an argument. It displays weakness. It tells me that they've lost and they know it. It's also narcissistic: when you squawk that I should "grow up" you're insisting that you're more mature than I am, which for some reason, I'm supposed to actually care about.
I don't. I am enjoying your futile stuttering and spluttering, however.
Maybe if you'd graduated from high school, you could've understood the post you moaned about not being able to understand.