Orientation Day & Formal

ORIENTATION DAY

The teachers job on orientation day is to preach to the converted. The history teacher thinks history is important because of how it relates to the present, while the International Studies teacher goes on about an ever changing world.

The head of Senior School begins the day’s bullshitting in his forty five minute meaningless rant on how the school is dedicated to creating bright students who will ‘leave their mark‘ on the world. Ugh. The ‘You’re in control!’ message is so not empowering anymore. We’ve already had the motivational speaker who tried to turn every student to believe the only way to be ’successful’ in life is to accumulate as much wealth as possible. People need to be reminded our school isn’t for Young Liberals brainwashing. We aren’t even private!

All my preferences hangs in the balance until my interview on Monday. I’ve done well this year in everything except Methods (and Physics, but I’ve dropped that) and I want to change nearly all my subjects. The only two I’m keeping from this year is English and Methods which just happen to be my best and worst subjects respectively. I should pray that I get a smooth interview Monday, but being the militant atheist that I am, I sacrifice that nice warm positive feeling that comes with being the brainwashing.

FORMAL

The Year 11 formal was Wednesday night. You don’t need to go to one to discover stupid ignorant teenagers in hired suits and dresses are still stupid ignorant teenagers.

First came the myspazz photos. Seriously, I can’t take another round of Let’s-see-who-has-the-most-friends-to-take-photos-with. As an undiagnosed sufferer of BDD, I can’t smile properly without looking ugly. I tried desperately to control the number of photos I was bound to appear in and at last count it was over a dozen. I’m sure most have been uploaded to the interwebs without my permission. Whatever happened to good old fashion privacy and personal space?

The food severed starting with some pasta dish for entrée was feral. I lost count of the kilo-joules I had to burn after my sixth glass of Home Brand cola.

Of the four hours which seemed like an entirety, three were spent on dancing. It was fucking scary at first not knowing how people will react to your arms and feet attempting uncontrolled and uncoordinated movements. I sought solace in the fact everyone was jumping up and down retardedly with me. Should have taken drugs to hide my embarrassment, come to think of it; after all that’s what they’re for. Hopefully people who witnessed my abhorrent behavior will have forgotten. What happened at the formal stays at the formal.