Journal Entry: Hope, Doom, and High School

Reflections from a tired girl trying to make sense of everything

I constantly feel like I’m doing so much work and barely getting any results.

The most notable instance recently was when we got our report cards back on Friday. Or was it Thursday? Oh, I don’t know. It’s not like it matters. My average went a little down this marking period. What a tragedy, I know. Less than half a point. Olivia’s went up to a 97. I’m dissatisfied with my average.

I honestly don’t know what caused it. Probably my lacking participation. I think I participate. I try, at least. I just don’t understand why participation counts so much toward our grades. It’s not like a test grade or something. Participation isn’t tangible.

An important question I’ve always had: is being stupid but asking many questions worth more than being knowledgeable and participating in discussions where the speaker already knows what they’re talking about? Watch me, read back on this in senior year, and still not know the answer. Yeah, if high school was good, you’ll probably be smirking right now, you cheeky devil. I hope you turn out okay. Just don’t lose hope.

That’s what I’m trying to focus on now: hope. We all have so much potential to do amazing things. We can’t just quit when something—or someone—gets in our way.

Heh, look at me. I’m sounding like some self-help coach. Ridiculous. I shouldn’t be a self-help coach. That isn’t cool enough for me. My job should be cool, or glamorous, something my grad children will be impressed by. I wonder what they’re going to be like.

I remember being in church today and imagining myself with my kid, getting all sappy and weepy after they do something wonderful. They sit in my lap and ask why I’m crying, and I’ll just say, “You’re amazing, and I love you, so much.” And they’ll hug me and be like, “I know, I know.” Sigh.

I still wish someone would talk to me. I’m at the park, sitting on a bench, just typing away. I wonder if anyone ever wonders what I’m typing. But who cares? They think they’re so fucking cool. I hate them.

As always, I am a ball of love with a tiny core of hate. But I still wish one of them would talk to me. I think that’s sad. I’m a sad person. I wish someone could say hi, compliment me, or just spark a conversation. Maybe I’m intimidating. I don’t know. I hate people who stay in their designated social cliques.