Immaturity- My Expirence With Teenagers
Created | Updated Jan 29, 2007
The following is an editorial account of my expirences with high-school boys, It is based on opinion, but may nevertheless serve as a tool for decision making concerning whether or not to let yourself fall madly in love with a popular boy.
Every morning at my school, about 10% of the school populace meets in the lunchroom, and I am among them. Sandy eyed and uncoordinated, I spend my mornings wearily marching through the hordes of morning-ridden seniors, some too exhausted to talk and some so unnaturally energized as they cheerfully chat that one would suspect that they swallowed several caffeine pills and the energizer bunny on the way to school.
The real reason for this, of course, is not any unnatural amount of Ki, or motivation to learn within their pathetic, barely functioning teenage system. It is because the populace that meets in the lunchroom every morning does not represent the school’s population universe. No, only the most attention-seeking, love desperate, hypocritical souls journey there each day, where the preppy women spend their time drooling over an over-expressed gothic, or some partially attractive party animal as they grin and talk about wildly random subjects, almost invariably returning to the subject of their penis. You may say this is an exaggeration, or maybe perhaps think that I am just jealous that I am not a part of the socially active freak-convention that takes place every morning as I sit on my own, casually sipping a poorly brewed cappuccino, and these conclusions would not be far fetched. However, a closer inspection of my past reveals that two out of the my three past years of high school (this being my fourth) were spent drooling and fantasizing, dressing myself up for attention, saying ridiculous, far fetched nonsense while donning the lowest cut shirts- just like the rest of them. It was only during my junior year that I began to acquire some sense. I realized how fruitless my journeys were for the men that women so pined for, as they came to me with their jubilant eyes glittering as their voice jumped about in exotic pitches whilst they admired their penis, or talked about how wasted and sick they had gotten the night before, then as they casually, as if I had been a ghost, wandered off to the next set of victims from which they could, vampire like, suck every drop of possible attention they could out of them, leaving their feminine bodies limp with wonder and admiration. Oh sure, they knew my name, and they called me over to them every now and then, causing a hope to spring inside of me like an army of locusts, hope that he would appreciate my company and chose me over the swarm of mindless preps that dazzled his either side and sat upon his knee, like models for a new kind of car, or glittery magicians assistants accentuating his body, before it disappeared behind a grand cape. I would take a seat in front of him, begging him with my empty eyes to think of me as better, more intelligent, more worthy of his masculine grandeur.
Of course, sometime between then and now the self-esteem fairy paid a visit to my window, and now looking upon this man, a man once surrounded by cottenheaded preps like I once was, and I see a desperate soul, going from window to window, begging the onlookers for attention. Pulling stunts such as removing his pants leaving only his boxers, to impress people with his mighty lack of embarrassment. Snorting lines of sugar in the lunchroom early in the day, to show the world his strength of courage in the face of pain and stupidity, he is like a child throwing a tantrum for a piece of candy.
So early each morning I sit and observe, notice the strange clothing that suggest depression yet the happy faces and constant bodily contact that scream for the world to notice them. I no longer see a room of students, having fun and trying to fit in, but a competition. Is it any wonder I sit alone?
Every morning at my school, about 10% of the school populace meets in the lunchroom, and I am among them. Sandy eyed and uncoordinated, I spend my mornings wearily marching through the hordes of morning-ridden seniors, some too exhausted to talk and some so unnaturally energized as they cheerfully chat that one would suspect that they swallowed several caffeine pills and the energizer bunny on the way to school.
The real reason for this, of course, is not any unnatural amount of Ki, or motivation to learn within their pathetic, barely functioning teenage system. It is because the populace that meets in the lunchroom every morning does not represent the school’s population universe. No, only the most attention-seeking, love desperate, hypocritical souls journey there each day, where the preppy women spend their time drooling over an over-expressed gothic, or some partially attractive party animal as they grin and talk about wildly random subjects, almost invariably returning to the subject of their penis. You may say this is an exaggeration, or maybe perhaps think that I am just jealous that I am not a part of the socially active freak-convention that takes place every morning as I sit on my own, casually sipping a poorly brewed cappuccino, and these conclusions would not be far fetched. However, a closer inspection of my past reveals that two out of the my three past years of high school (this being my fourth) were spent drooling and fantasizing, dressing myself up for attention, saying ridiculous, far fetched nonsense while donning the lowest cut shirts- just like the rest of them. It was only during my junior year that I began to acquire some sense. I realized how fruitless my journeys were for the men that women so pined for, as they came to me with their jubilant eyes glittering as their voice jumped about in exotic pitches whilst they admired their penis, or talked about how wasted and sick they had gotten the night before, then as they casually, as if I had been a ghost, wandered off to the next set of victims from which they could, vampire like, suck every drop of possible attention they could out of them, leaving their feminine bodies limp with wonder and admiration. Oh sure, they knew my name, and they called me over to them every now and then, causing a hope to spring inside of me like an army of locusts, hope that he would appreciate my company and chose me over the swarm of mindless preps that dazzled his either side and sat upon his knee, like models for a new kind of car, or glittery magicians assistants accentuating his body, before it disappeared behind a grand cape. I would take a seat in front of him, begging him with my empty eyes to think of me as better, more intelligent, more worthy of his masculine grandeur.
Of course, sometime between then and now the self-esteem fairy paid a visit to my window, and now looking upon this man, a man once surrounded by cottenheaded preps like I once was, and I see a desperate soul, going from window to window, begging the onlookers for attention. Pulling stunts such as removing his pants leaving only his boxers, to impress people with his mighty lack of embarrassment. Snorting lines of sugar in the lunchroom early in the day, to show the world his strength of courage in the face of pain and stupidity, he is like a child throwing a tantrum for a piece of candy.
So early each morning I sit and observe, notice the strange clothing that suggest depression yet the happy faces and constant bodily contact that scream for the world to notice them. I no longer see a room of students, having fun and trying to fit in, but a competition. Is it any wonder I sit alone?
