KAHN

It was raining. Not really pouring, but it was raining. A steady pitter-patter, pitter-patter that would eventually put you to sleep, under the peaceful drumming of rain on the roof, that rose in crescendos and faded into silence, and rose again like Zeus's wrath. Yet, when one waits outside a classroom at 7:45 in the morning waiting for the godawful fucking French teacher to come and be good-for-nothing hypocrite, the rain is nothing short of tortuous. Sprays of water splashed on my knockoff Converse sneakers, spattering my jeans and the ankles beneath, water slowly seeping into my socks and between my toes... The person who designed Californian schools was a goddamned genius, shoulda won a fuckin' Nobel Prize for leaving everyone in the wonderful, sunshiney California weather, where everyone's hot and has cotton candy hair. Well, everyone here is fucking sad and ugly, I thought murderously. Everyone huddled under any shelter they could find in the pitiful wings they called hallways. It looked like a refugee camp from World War II, the poor French students stuck under the bomb shelters.

It was ridiculous. It was raining and our first period teacher was late. I bet Hitler was never late to one of his rallies. Our teacher, obviously the aspiring leader of the Fourth Reich, can't even come on time to her propaganda-laced lessons for the Vinolus Youth. Speaking of which, here she came. Madame. The woman who posted homework too late at night. The woman who was the most disorganized clusterfuck in existence, couldn't even find your fuckin' test if you wanted to tell her she can't do basic mathematics. The woman who can't teach a fucking class in a scheduled and timely manner and always going off topic and not being able to tell me the difference between the past and past imperfect tense.

She had a scowl on her face, and mumbled under her breath while she fumbled with her keys. What a perfect Monday morning. I could just die of excitement. She finally opened the door and we shuffled in, awaiting our fates in the concentration camp of Room 409. The room was crowded - way too small for a class of 43, but just enough room for us to all squeeze in and wait for the Zyklon-B to start flowing. She waved for us to sit down quietly, and gave us orders to prepare for a warm up. Maybe we would be spared today - just another day of hard labor. Oh wait, did I say hard labor? More like doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Which is arguably worse.

VLAD

Not another Monday morning. Another tedious, repetitive, Monday morning, and we get to start off these glorious Monday mornings with our wonderful, beautiful French teacher. I had instantly regretted sleeping past 12 that night reading fanfiction. It was just so intriguing and captivating. I promised myself to retire earlier today, even though I knew I would promptly forget to do so as soon as I got home. I look up at the board and scowled. We wouldn't even do half of the things on the board. I knew it. The students knew it. Madame knew it, and insisted on her tomfoolery on "all means all" and "professionalism."

I leafed through my loose papers to find my homework and titled my papers to class regulations. Nom, date, classe. Nom, date, classe. Don't forget an imaginative title. It was tedious and repetitive. And I wished something else would happen today. If we're lucky, maybe a zombie apocalypse. I looked up and replied to the usual Bonjour Madame, as she greeted us with Bonjour classe well 5 minutes into the already lost class time. Typical Madame. She started talking about the French President and his proposal of banning homework. Maybe if we're lucky, I thought, she'll give us some meaningful homework instead of this bull. I smirked as I realized we were going to waste another day. Then I frowned at the lack of progression this class was achieving. Chapitre 1, Lecon 3. Six weeks had passed, a little bit over, and we were still on chapter bloody fucking one. Madame claims that it was because we go beyond the book. I blame that she's just so fucking lazy to write a test. Maybe if we did have a zombie apocalypse, everyone would team up and push her into the zombies first. This isn't foreshadowing. I swear it. If it was, that would be creepy.

Everything was tedious and repetitive. We might as well not even have a fucking French class. The school can just assign us textbooks and give us bi-weekly check ups or something. We learn more at home than in class. What was the point of having a teacher if she answered most of her questions with it's your job to search that up or ask your partners first. I sighed as I stared into space, before being startled by the cover photo of France, The People. Jesus Christ, his face. How can he see into my eyes like opened doors?

MACY

Jesus tittyfucking Christ. Math. What was going on. It's Algebra II and I still have no idea what was going on. Not only that but I felt awful. How many shots did I take again? It was hard to keep count when one continuously dies on TF2. Speaking of which, I have to remind myself that a TF2 drinking game is self-perpetuating. The drunker you get, the more you die, the drunker you get, the more you die. Not only that but the bottle wasn't uncapped when I stashed it in my closet, and my closet now smells like Apple Schnapps. Was it worth it? Hell yeah it fucking was. I stooped lower as another wave of nausea swept through me. This was going to be a long day. Thank god I no longer had a 7th period. But I never had a 1st period before my parents forcibly made me drop APUSH. Well, a friend of mine dropped his AP Bio class, but now he had only five classes. How was life ever fair to me? It wasn't. That was the joke. Life wasn't fair to me. But I guess that's not really worth joking about.

I was about to fall asleep until I heard a flicker of the speakers overhead squeaking into life. The sound droned into my ears like a swarm of pissed bees whose honey you just pilfered, you stupid klepto fuck. It was the principal, and her voice was frantic. What, did we break another educational barrier or something? Can I like, get some ice cream? That would be kickass. I could barely make out what she was saying. Code Red? Non-identified attackers on school grounds? Who lost their life? My mind was fuzzy as the other students stood up to barricade the doors. More noise. More headaches. I couldn't give less of a damn. I lazily crept into the barricade and proceeded to snooze off. I was doing my job of being hidden, wasn't I? Yeah, no big deal.

ABEL

Holy hell this bed is comfortable when you don't have a first period. And that was some weird-ass dream I had, that I just didn't want to get into details about. I wanted to ditch school and just lay in my bed cozy all day, but my fucking phone kept turning its alarm on and nagging me to put some clothes on (after all, lazy doesn't mean indecently sitting there in your undergarments-we'll save a story about that for another time). I sniffed around for some clean clothes to wear off of the floor and go to freshen up. After an uneventful moment, I came back to my room to read The Hobbit, thinking about whether or not to do that unfinished homework from last night. I shrugged it off and just say I can do it in physics or some shit like usual.

I lay back in bed for a while and continued reading, and for once not shipping. Holy shit this is a great book. I mean, Bilbo's a 50-year-old hobbit who was so sheltered and adorable and UGH. I just love Hobbits. Hobbits this, hobbits that. Then I lost my page and decided that reading right after waking up isn't the best of ideas. I whipped out my phone and checked Tumblr and Facebook (despite my laptop being on, but hell, that's like, miles away on the other side of my room) to find nothing on FB. It didn't really surprise me as I was unsubscribed to most of my "friends". And the ones I still am subscribed to only post when necessary (that's about like what, twice a month?). My dash was spammed with what looks like hella sick Silent Hill cosplays. I notice the time on my phone as I close my apps. Oh damn, 8.25, It's high time I drag my lazy ass to school.