So MySpace has this thing where you can add your high school to your page. The girl who looks like me said “No thank you.” Deep down, she knew why.

Feeling nostalgic, though, she visited websites of the place that could have been her alma mater had her mother not decided to homeschool her. The place looked the same after twelve years: a generic-institutional-think-farm where many of the teachers have forgotten the core reason why they chose education for careers, and all the students look either bored, dazed, surprised, lost, or all four at once in their zombification.

Seeing those photos brought back memories of all the bullshit of trying to fit in socially with hundreds of kids, so very much like mice let loose in a maze where day-old cheese awaits the ones who choose the right path every time a bell rings. And along the way you run into, you know: the guy that likes you for whatever reason; then doesn’t like you for whatever reason; then likes you again for whatever reason. Same with girlfriends who want to punch you one day because you looked at their guy a certain way, then want to be besties because you did something that made them feel all gooey inside.

Shutting down her computer and sitting back in the kitchen chair of her apartment at the other end of the country (with a satisfied shit-eating grin on her face), she’s glad it’s all behind her. And that’s where she’s leaving it.


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