Of black and white plaid skirts and realizations brought about by Senior Year (the film)

You would have never liked me back in high school. Up to now, I’m not so sure why I did it. I don’t dance well, and I wasn’t at all comfortable with the cheerleading uniform. And yet I did it. Bright make-up, pleated short skirts, beaming widely as my awkward body danced into a routine surrounded by the pettiest and shallowest fights.

You copied my hairstyle, why are you wearing the same brand of shirt, you’re a know-it-all, I liked him first, but he liked me first. 

Think Peyton Sawyer. The girl with the dark cloud whose popularity creds boiled down to dating a jock and being best friends with the mean girls. Ask anyone from my high school and they wouldn’t give you an exact detail of who I was or what I did. They would just associate me with a number of names and who those names were.

First bottle of beer, first pack of cigarettes, first joint, first tablet, first kiss. And a lot more firsts I cannot anymore remember.

For four years, I just floated around. And I never really understood anything back in high school. And I’m still not so sure if I do now. 

But maybe that’s the point. After all, the world is just a classroom.