I wondered why a middle aged man (who was wearing sunglasses that were eerily similar to a pair I had at age four that had in the corner of one lens a tiny photo of Taz, actually) was throwing things at our grade as we sat in the bleachers. LEARNING STATUS: Answer never found.
Some boys reach a certain age in which they are convinced they invented anarchy, poor hygiene, and Kurt Cobain.
...And I have reached the age in which I am too often under the incorrect impression that I am wise enough to make that kind of observation.
If you, as a short person, want to get anywhere in the halls, you must push and shove. PUSH AND SHOVE.
It's great when you don't want to see someone, and they don't want to see you, so you can ignore one another in the halls on a mutual basis.
Ella and I greatly resemble Jane and Daria at lunch.
High school is fun, so far.
(No photos today, as I am currently barren of a camera. But I hate a post without visuals, so do enjoy the theme song of possibly the greatest television show about high school ever. Then get into an angry Internet debate in the comments about what is actually the greatest show, then watch me get all, "Guys, this Internet Fight of yours is so high school!" and I shall revel in how I can now say that and have a sliver of an idea of what I'm talking about.)