Done for my English class, which is basically a workshop on the writing of stories. Go fig.

Taking a swig out of your carefully placed bottle, you contemplate the papers in front of you.

School’s such a pain in the ass, you think, and English is the Capital A in the one of the four that matters. What the heck does anyone need with a stupid essay like this? It’s retarded, and your English teacher is more retarded for assigning it. She acts like it’s supposed to be meaningful or something.

You snicker – that was how she acted about the poetry assignment a month ago, the one no one even bothered to do. Well, Meg and the other nerds did, but they ARE nerds. There’s really no hope for any of them – not really.

You shake your head. No, there’s really no point to doing this essay –at least, not sober. You take another swig from your bottle and dig through the pile of homework beside you. At least the teachers don’t leave you hurting for distractions. Which is about the only thing they do right.

Ah, math. Good old math. Calculus, specifically…oh wait; you skipped the lesson on this, didn’t you?

And why not? Calculus and the other so-called “higher” math classes teach with less numbers and more letters – it’s like they’re mutating into more stupid English classes. You snort – that explains the nauseating smell from the cafeteria food, at least.

Just as you reach for the bottle again – dealing with all this unreasonable stress, you deserve a nice hit of relaxation tonight, even if it does take out most of your supply – there are heavy footsteps, plodding down the stairs. This is the reason you keep your stash hidden around the house – Mommy and Daddy are so old-fashioned. Hard to believe you’re related.

It’s not either of them this time, though – it’s only your dear, darling little sister. It’s even harder to believe that there's any relation between her and you.

Your best friend Trisha has a little sister of her own, and loves the thing like a cashmere sweater. Why can’t your sister be more like Trisha’s – and she is sweet, little Maria, who’s only four and wants to be a unicorn when she grows up.

You, on the other hand, were lucky enough to get an oversized brat that thinks she can make it in the real world on brains alone. She’s the kind that thinks a good personality is everything. Perhaps it is better she doesn’t try to focus on her looks – there’s nothing short of a good liposuction that’ll fix that gut. And the lumpy cylinder of a body that goes with it – oh, you’d probably kill yourself if you didn’t have the nice little tushy that Michael loves so much.

“Hey,” your sister grunts at you.

“What?” you retort, “This better be real important, Clarence.”

She goes bright red – you knew she hates being called Clarence, that’s why you call her that. It’s her own fault for being too ugly to be a real girl, like you are.

“Oh shut up,” she retorts.

You’d laugh at her pathetic attempt, but…oh, why wait? You do laugh, and she goes even redder.

“Your stupid friend is here,” your sister finally spits out, and bolts back up the stairs. You only wish she’d gone faster.

“How on Earth do you stand her?” Trisha asks sympathetically, as she emerges into the basement, radiant as always.

“I just have to ignore her – she’s always trying to get all the attention on her,” you reply.

You’re glad to see Trisha, really glad – and the bulges in that backpack she’s wearing aren’t too unwelcome either.

“Figured you might be running a little low,” Trisha says, flashing you a glimpse of some still-frosty bottles, “What’s this, Calc? We have lunch first, you can get the answers from Meggie before class.”

“She’s Meggie now?” you ask, “What happened? Did hell freeze over?”

“It might have,” Trisha says, “Guess who I caught her with after the last bell on Friday? Ryan!”

“No!” you gasp, “What were they doing?”

“Well,” Trisha grins, “They’d gone to the band room, and they thought they were alone. So they decided to make sweet music together on the floor…when I left, they hadn’t gotten very far.”

You grimace. Who wants to think about Meg and Ryan? You and Ryan are one thing – Ryan’s one of those quiet, artistic guys, the cute ones that almost always turn out to be completely gay – but Meg, like that? EW!

“They heard me, and stopped,” Trisha says, “But Meg knows that if I breathe a single word, she’ll be expelled faster then you can say Where’s the condom? She’ll be more than happy to help out.”

“Wonderful,” you say, pulling out the bottle. You leave it sitting out, out where Trisha’s body blocks the view from the stairs. She picks it up, looks over the vintage, and nods approvingly.

Trisha’s the one who introduced you to the bottles. She introduces everyone who deserves one to their first, free of charge – her dad owns the liquor store in town, she gets them easily. In fact, if not for Trisha, you’d still be one of those hopeless ones, the ones who drift through life unwanted and ugly. Like Meg – like Meggie, you correct yourself. And speaking of…

“Well, too bad Meggie can’t write my essay,” you sigh, turning back to the English nightmare.

“Tom helped me with mine,” Trisha says, “He was over for a study session…too bad I don’t take anatomy, I think I’d get an easy A.”

You giggle. Tom’s not your type – although he is cute – and the stories some of the other girls tell are even…cuter.

Then you sigh. No point in avoiding it anymore – the damn thing’s due tomorrow and you’ve already had two weeks to write it in. Honestly, that brainless teacher of yours doesn’t understand the concept of giving someone time to work at all.

All right. Might as well get started. You don’t want to look like a stupid idiot in front of Trisha. You turn to your computer, and try not to look as Trisha picks up your bottle and takes a big swig. You focus on the computer screen.

Who I want to be when I graduate Junior High is…