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My High School

Ah, Black Hills High School, the womb which births champions. No it’s not on top of Mount Rushmore, but rather, in sight of the Black Hills that no one knows about. The ones in Washington. No, not the District of Columbia. Washington State.

Black Hills is a fairly normal high school. It has AP students who don’t sleep, and whose blood type is caffeine. And it has junkies who do no homework, only pot. Then there’s everything in between: jocks, preps, geeks, losers, punks, skaters, metalheads, gamers, and girls with eating disorders.

Of course, there are also the administrators. Those strange adults who are the perky, student’s-best-friend one minute, and the strict, I’ll-suspend-you-‘till-you’re-30-bosses the next. Sure they try to cater to the students’ needs, but just can’t seem to get it perfect.

And you can’t forget those lovely teachers! It seems like everywhere you look there’s either the pervy old man, or the sweet, young, new teacher who hasn’t been out of college long enough to be strict. Or they’re just crazy, ranting about mayonnaise and whatever else happens to cross their minds.

Moving on to-Oh my Lord what is that smell? Oh right I almost forgot. That stench that is the work of a thousand dancing, gleeful, demons with the intent of adding one more disgusting, horrible, degrading feature to high school. It’s not enough to have fifty pounds of homework, gossiping girls, immature boys, insensitive teachers, and puberty. NO! There has to be a manure farm in the mix as well. Throw it all in a blender and you get the mashed-up blob that is Black Hills High School.