“Is my skirt too short? It is? Good. Screw you.”

  I thought I’d take a moment from everything that’s been going on and point your attention to the excellent new header I uploaded thirty seconds ago. It is staying up there for approximately eight million years, as that is the amount of time it took to match the colours to the format I write in on Picnik and Paint.

  Yes, I use Paint. I would also be a big fan of a website called Crayon, if one existed. It would teach people like me how to draw straight lines and font so art exams are less painful than French ones. There would be every colour and shade known to anyone, and people who own Flash/Photoshop/graphics tablets would not be allowed in on principle.

  However, I am digressing from the track I originally wanted to write about. Ah yes. This blog is a place for me to say what I want, when I want to, in whatever way I see fit at the time. No apologies for having an opinion, though bitching over the Internet is too 2008 to consider. It is also childish. So, without further ado;

Ten Things I/We/You Hate About High School

#10 Teachers thinking they are better than you because they are the ones with the diploma and whiteboard pen. Teachers saying they know what you are going through since they were once hormone-riddled teenagers, then lecturing you on the dangers of GHB. If we want to take it, we will take it. If we don’t die or become junkies, hopefully we won’t try it again.

#9 Classmates with their heads stuck so far up their own arse they can’t see the light. The ones who only see that they’re different to you, but act as though it’s a criminal offence. It isn’t. For God’s sake, accept that not everyone enjoys listening to Cheryl Cole and get over the fact they enjoy heavy metal or classic. These people are often also the ones who think it matters what your high jump score was and whether or not you can multiply out the brackets.

#8 A-Levels/AS-Levels/GCSEs/SATs/end of year exams/end of topic tests. Enough said.

#7  This probably only applies to girls and gay boys, but I’ll stick it in anyway: the fear of saying anything meaningful or personal to anyone, in case the next day four other kids know about it. Same applies to bitching. There are two people in my school I would take into my complete confidence, possibly three. The rest I don’t know well enough and/or don’t trust not to spill at the slightest pressure. Or on MSN.

#6 The permanent emphasis on gay people, sex and gay sex. No longer being in primary school clearly shows that every other conversation has to involve innuendo, especially about fags, but it’s totally not cool to come out about being a fag, which brings me on to my next point…

#5 There is no way to tell when you are fifteen, whether or not you are gay or bisexual. So, attention seeking kiddies, stop ‘coming out’. Everyone else, stop worrying. The consensus is; have a hell load of fun, experiment  and steer clear of STDs. Chances are in later life you will want to get married to a member of the opposite sex and help populate the Earth without spreading AIDS.

#4 The rivalry between schools and the stereotypes that accompany them. The typecast for my all-girls grammar is ‘posh lesbian’. You simply have to take a look at some members of Year Ten to see that this is not true.

#3 Confusion. Over what to have for lunch, what to say to whom, where to sit, what to put in the answer space, whether you like that person or not. I seem to spend seventy percent of my time at SHSG not knowing what to do.

#2 The toilets.

#1 Pressure. From everyone. On you. To ace that paper, sleep with that dude, practice for that assessment. To be nice to friends and family (which you really want to do because they are nice) while stressing out about tomorrow’s exam and wondering if you finally blew it and said the wrong thing to her again.

  I may add to this list and make it The Definitive Yet Unlimited List of Reasons Why We Are Allergic to Senior School. Watch this space.

  Good luck in the jungle, and remember: you can’t go to hell, you’re already in it. However, you will leave when you are sixteen or eighteen and at some point in your mid-twenties you will be glad you put up with it. Probably when you recognise some prep in the high street who’s not got the movie-star life she thought she would.