display | more...

Ah, High School.


 When you're sixteen or so, people begin to look at you enviously, waxing nostalgic over the days of their youth. They tell you to enjoy these short four years, that you're living The Best Years of Your Life. For some reason, people continue spreading this cliché phrase, completely unaware of what utter bullshit it is.


 I, too, was raring and ready to enter the exciting and independent world of the high school student the summer before my freshman year. I saw kids I knew in grade school go off to better things, coming back with tattoos and crazy, drunken tales. I wanted more than anything to be a part of that, the alluring existence of the high school student. In my elders, I saw the beer, cigarettes and women that I yearned for. Eighth grade was a year of tremendous social growth for me, I was a goldfish who'd grown too big for his bowl. I needed freedom, alcohol, sex and drugs. I needed the All-American High School Experience™.

I was in for quite the rude awakening.


My freshman and sophomore years of High School were the biggest blow to my ego and social self-image I'd ever been dealt. I was treated like shit, thrown into lockers and just generally abused. For the most part, I was an overweight, teenage loser in one of the biggest social shark tanks a man will ever swim in during his lifetime.

 And then there was the party scene...


I came into high school expecting to go out every weekend to wild parties, enjoy several hot, blonde upperclassmen at once, and get hammered at least three nights a week.


Oh well, one out of three ain't half bad, right?


Yep, I was a fledgling  drunkard by 16 years old. The hellishness of the high school experience had literally drove me to drinking. I had no girlfriend, no job, no money and no car. "Best years of my life?" Go to hell.


My high school experience is summed up quite well by one particular event, the pinnacle of my ever clarified social ineptitude in the secondary school environment. It was my Junior year, and I'd just been invited to the first real high school party of my life. There was going to be a keg, loud music, a hookah and plenty of freshman girls to go around. I was to show up at some senior's house at 9, his parents being out of town for the weekend.


I arrived an hour late, six pack of my parents' beer in tow, to the most awe inspiring sight my adolescent eyes had ever seen. Foreigner was blaring over his expensive hi-fi setup, setting the perfect mood for the sea of drunken teenagers dancing and talking in the richly decorated living room. There were several drinks spilled on the rug already, and the acrid smell of marijuana smoke hung in the humid air.


I was in heaven. 


After about eight Yuenglings and quite some time at the hookah, I had the distinct pleasure of running into one of my old friends from middle school, a girl I'd pined for for most of my childhood. I remember my first thoughts being; Jesus, how could four years change one person so much? The sweet girl with the Ramones t-shirt I'd once knew was now slathered with makeup and wearing the preppy bitch outfit du-jour. Still, however, she was happy to see me and very inebriated. The innocent love of my prepubescent life was now grinding her crotch on my leg to the tune of whatever Chili Peppers song was playing in the background.


She told me she was going to get her purse, she'd left it upstairs. Due to my idiocy, I failed to pick up on the hint and she left. It took me five minutes to fully comprehend what had occurred, at which time I nearly dropped my beer as I made a beeline for the stairs.


I never did get to go upstairs, as I was met by the host's friend at the bottom. He kindly informed me that the second floor was a private area, and that I should probably fuck off and die. Like the sex-crazed idiot I was, I ignored his advice and attempted to shove past him and bolt up the stairs to my first of many romantic conquests.


I was politely escorted to the front yard, where I was savagely beaten and left bleeding on the sidewalk. My shoes were stolen, as well as my wallet and keys, leaving me locked out of my own house and with about 87 cents to my name, which I used to use the pay phone at the local gas station and call my parents, desperately needing a ride to the hospital.


So there you have it. Instead of getting my reward for the three years of hell I'd gone through up until that point, instead of getting to violate the young, nubile flesh of my childhood trophy, I had my eye socket fractured and my nose mashed in by a guy who would later go on to hold a job at the local supermarket and smoke weed on his couch until present day.  My life has improved a lot since then, but it still pisses me off when I hear that phrase.


The Best Years of Your Life?


 Jesus, I sure hope not.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.