My Un-bipolar Bipolar Teacher

People say I don't like my ****** teacher because I don't like ******.

That's not true. I don't like ******. But that's irrelevant.

I like my geography teacher even though I'm not brilliant at geography.

I like my maths teacher even though I'm not great at maths.

I like my sport teacher even though I suck at sport.

My ****** teacher said that since I'm acing year nine English I should at least be able to pass year eight ******.

That is not true. I am not some goody-two-shoes all-rounder freak student who's good at everything. I am just really good at English and really bad at everything else. And it its very hard to be good at something when your teacher makes you cry.

Some people say that if you're a good student it doesn't matter whether you like your teacher or not, and that if you're a bad student it doesn't matter how good your teacher is.

That is not true.

I suck at maths. But I'm improving. Slowly. But steadily. I credit my teacher to that.

I really suck at geography - maps are complete alien to me. I got a distinction in some national competition, and I credit my awesome teacher (and sheer luck) for that.

The fact remains that my ****** teacher is an unbipolar bipolar teacher. That's even worse than a grumpy teacher. Even worse than a I'm-trying-to-be-cool-but-failing-pathetically teacher. Even worse than fat teachers who wear too much make up and tell you to shut up and listen whilst they garbage on about stuff we know and they don't. Even worse than teachers that give out detentions and infringements and yell at you just for fun. And yes, all of these kinds of teachers wind up at my school.

Unbipolar bipolar teachers are teachers that are really fun and bubbly and energetic one day and then really crabby and grumpy the next day. The kind of teacher that encourages you one day and then chucks your work in the bin the next day. The kind of teacher that gives out house points and infringements in the same lesson to the same person. Yeah. That kind of teacher.

I really should say this to his face but the fact is I'm to chicken-shit to do it because I'm terrified he'll dock me off year nine English. If he docks me off year nine English I don't know what I'll do. Something really bad will happen to me and he'll live his life knowing he killed his student.

Just joking. How emo. I wish it could happen without me actually dying though.

I know I'm not a perfect student - I'm wild, rebellious, and disorganized to boot. I know that. And I am trying to improve - the last bit anyway. And I respect all teachers when I first meet them. But when they fail to respect me, yeah, I do lose respect for them. I bitch about them behind their backs. I badmouth them and post stuff about them on my blog for all my readers from America to Australia to Sri Lanka to read. Just like I do to any people who annoy me.

Writing, especially writing on the internet, gives you this power. Like, I don't care what you do to me but if you do anything I don't like it's gonna end up on the net. That's power you can't buy.

Of course, I only have a handful of people reading, but still, it's there.

Oh, and I starred out the subject so I don't get in trouble. Actually, I probably will anyway, because that's the kind of thing I have to put up with when it comes to my teachers.

Pride.

I'm blogging a lot today.

I just need to clear something up. Something that's been bothering me for a while.

A lot of people are under the impression that I'm a huge show-off - and I am, I suppose. But let me explain.

All my life, I have never quite fit in - I don't fit in with my family, or any of the godzillion cliques that have flitted by, or any group or organization. I was just the weirdo. The creep. I was either too good for them, or not good enough.

And you try it - you try fitting in with a bunch of girls who care about nothing but makeup and hair irons, or with a family who are all brilliant at maths. It's hard. On the outside, I've always outwardly embraced my weirdness - but I don't. Not really. If you're not in my shoes, you don't know what it's like to wish you were just normal, for once. Not too good at this and not too bad for that. Just...normal. Acceptable.

Whenever someone praised me, it was always for something I had or something I did - I was praised for my writing, my sense of humour, for this and for that, always *because* of something. But no-one ever gushed about me because I was me.

I wanted praise because I was who I am - instead, everyone just tried to change me. And when I never got it, I started praising myself.

No-one told me I was pretty - or if they did, they didn't believe it, so I hardly did - so I told myself I was pretty. When people told me I was smart, they always said it in a bad way - that I was too smart, like it was some kind of disease. So I told myself I was smart, and that it was a good thing.

People say I'm desperate for a boyfriend - and I guess I am, I won't deny it anymore. But not for all the reasons everyone thinks. It's just that...all my friends are either in love and something's actually going to work out, or going out with someone, and I feel left out. I wish someone would text 'I love you' to me, just like they do to my best friend. When I hear all those songs about people falling in love, it just makes me cry. I can't write romance or read Twilight anymore - it's too hard. I know boys aren't anywhere near as good as Edward Cullen, but I know some of them are pretty damn close.

I won't bull about it - I'm a very insecure person. And it's not something I can snap out of easily - I'm working on it, very hard, but every now and then someone says something that just pushes me over the edge. It's like telling an anorexic person that they're fat - it's hardly going to help them recover, is it?

I don't know where it came from, but suddenly all these *negative* thoughts just engulfed me, and soon I was drowning in my imperfections. Was it because I was fat? Because I had acne? Because I liked reading and writing? Because I was bad at sport and maths and science? Was it what I wore?

People tried to assure me that wasn't it, but I couldn't stop it. It's just something that nags me all the time: if I wasn't so weird then maybe my friends would last longer than six months. If I wasn't so weird maybe I would have a boyfriend by now. If I wasn't so weird then...everything would be better.

I was really insecure when I was twelve - I had temper outbursts and nervous breakdowns, and I was always in tears over something or someone. Over the holidays, away from everyone and just with the positive influence of my family, who have tried to accept me for who I am as best they can, I grew more confident.

And then, when I got to school, people said I was too boastful. Too arrogant. Insolent. Show-off. Freak. Nerd. Bitch. Slut.

And now I'm back to where I was.

I wish I could believe people when they compliment me, and not believe them when they pick on me. I wish I was more accepted and not so weird. I wish boys wouldn't turn me down before they even got to know me, or get swayed by what their friends say about me rather than what I say about myself.

People say get over it - but it's so hard. It's like anorexia or something - when I'm not down, I just laugh it off and say it's pathetic and silly, bu when I *am* down, it's like nothing can drag me out of it.

On the bright side, I have my writing - if I couldn't write I probably would have engaged in petty crime or something a long time ago. And I can connect with music - it helps to get it off my chest.

See, something just as simple as that statement would have people instantly saying I'm showing off. But how can they say that? Do they like pushing me off the edge? Do they like seeing me depressed? Do they like seeing me cry?

I think they do.

If I Were a Boy

If you follow one of my other blogs, you'll know I'll resort to song lyrics to express myself - there's something about music and the words on songs that makes the message so much more powerful, rather than subtle lines that go unnoticed in stories.

I post song lyrics that describe how I'm feeling - I'll take them from songs I know and like, or I'll write them myself.

The lyrics below are the words to Beyonce's song 'If I Were A Boy'. This is how I'm feeling right now. (Here's the video:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BVTyLqkez6A)

If I were a boy,
Even just for a day;
I'd roll out of bed in the morning,
And throw on what I wanted,
And go.

Drink beer with the guys,
And chase after girls;
I'd kick it with who I wanted,
And I'd never get confronted for it;
'Cause they stick up for me.

If I were a boy,
I think I could understand;
How it feels to love a girl,
I swear I'd be a better man.

I'd listen to her,
'Cause I know how it hurts;
When you lose the one you wanted,
'Cause he's taking you for granted;
And everything you had got destroyed.

If I were a boy,
I would turn off my phone;
Tell everyone it's broken,
So they'd think that I was sleeping alone.

I'd put myself first,
And make the rules as I go;
'Cause I know that she'd be faithful,
Waiting for me to come home.

If I were a boy,
I think I could understand;
How it feels to love a girl,
I swear I'd be a better man.

I'd listen to her,
'Cause I know how it hurts;
When you lose the one you wanted,
'Cause he's taking you for granted;
And everything you had got destroyed.

It's a little too late for you to come back;
Say it's just a mistake,
Think I'd forgive you like that;
If you thought I would wait for you,
You thought wrong.

But you're just a boy,
You don't understand;
How it feels to love a girl,
Someday you'll wish you were a better man.

You don't listen to her,
You don't care how it hurts;
Until you lose the one you wanted,
'Cause you're taking her for granted;
And everything you had got destroyed.

But you're just a boy...

Rain.

I know said I didn't want to publish 'Rain' on my blog until it's polished - but I will, because unpolished work speaks emotions that polished work does not, but polished work wins competitions when unpolished work falls short.

Here it is:

Rain.

I love the rain. It’s as though all the sadness of the world is finally released. I can feel the earth’s sadness, and her sense of relief as all the grief in her heart is emptied at last. When it rains, it makes me feel less alone – like there is someone out there that is even more heartbroken than I am now, if that’s even possible.

***

I don’t know him very well – not very well at all, only that he’s always surrounded by pretty girls and big, intimidating boys. They’re always laughing, and I wish I could be with them, laugh with them. But I can’t. The group is too big, and he’s right in the centre of it. Instead, I stare at him from the safety of my own knit of friends – my best friend stares at me whilst I stare at the beautiful laughing boy.
“I don’t know why you like him” he said, for the sixth time in ten minutes. “It’s not right. He’s too old for you”

I know Karl only speaks out of concern and that his anxiety is not without reason, but I can’t stop. This boy is like a drug.
“He’s not that much older” I protest. “And at least he’s not a pimplehead like you”
Karl grinned unashamedly, although the worry did not fully leave his eyes. He had seen me break down before, and it had completely freaked him out. And he wasn’t stupid – he knew my obsession with this boy wasn’t going to end prettily.
“Talking about what’s not right” I continued to tease him “Having a crush on a year nine isn’t nearly as bad as you. Still got that picture of Carmen Electra under your pillow?”

Karl blushed deep red as I laughed and resumed my staring at the boy.
“That’s...not...the...same” Karl spluttered, and I smiled to myself as he continued to mutter incoherently.

The boy looked up at me at that moment, and for a heartbeat, for one tiny fraction of a second, our eyes met. He smiled faintly, then turned his head to answer a question one of his impatient, pretty friends had asked him. My heart lurched to a standstill, then restarted violently, drumming a hundred miles an hour. I couldn’t breathe for all the emotions rushing through me – breathtaking happiness, heartwrenching sadness, utter contentment and restless impatience, all engulfing me at the same time. I was only vaguely aware of the bell ringing.

“Time for maths” Karl said cheerfully as he stuffed my lunchbox in my bag for me. He slung it over his shoulder, carrying his own easily in one hand. He grabbed my hand and yanked sharply, pulling me out of my reverie.

Karl was a tall, gangly boy with a wicked sense of humour and some serious skin issues. Because he was so long and lanky, he was terribly uncoordinated, and his klutziness was part of his baby-faced charm. Our relationship was close, but strictly not romantic – we both spent our time chasing other people, and comforting each other every time we had our hearts broken. Despite the fact that I knew this boy in the flesh, instead of Karl and his obsession with his poster of Carmen Electra, I probably knew him less than Karl knew his beloved picture.

School flew by in a blur – every time I passed the boy, my heart misbehaved wildly, and by the time I was over it Karl was looking at me worriedly. After school, he herded me to the train station whilst I tripped around in a daze, and his gaze grew more and more concerned. He carefully steered me onto the train and into a seat when the ancient bucket of bolts finally came, but no sooner had I sat down my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Hey sweetheart. How was skool?

My heart spluttered hyperactively as I read through the message and started to text back as fast as I could. If Karl looked worried before, he was seriously alarmed now. He, like most other people, was afraid of what state I might be in when my phone flirt was over.
“You’re going to have to tell him who you are eventually” he warned me as I texted. “And there is a chance that you’re going to end up all over the place again. You scared the living daylights out of me last time”
“I know” I muttered distractedly as I hit ‘send’. We sat in silence whilst I waited impatiently for him to reply.

I wish u’d tell me who u r, honey. It’z drivin me crazy.

I sighed. Out of all the messages the boy sent me, half of them were a variation of ‘who are you?’.

‘U’d laugh at me if i told u’ I texted back, wishing that were not the case. How I wish he’d be genuinely thrilled when he found out it was me.

‘No, I won’t. Scouts honour. Please tell me.’

Scouts honour. The old fashioned vow made me giggle. Karl looked at me anxiously.

‘I g2g’ I texted, unwilling to reveal to Karl how deep my phone relationship was – he was reading every word over my shoulder. ‘Talk 2 u soon.’

I don’t entirely remember how I got home – I only dimly remembered Karl hugging me goodbye at the busport and then unbolting my front door twenty minutes later, but nothing in between. It must have been raining, because I was soaking wet and shivering on the threshold – although I can’t recall being in the rain that day. Nonetheless, now I was cold, so I trouped off to the bathroom.

The hot water and lavender oil in my bathtub relaxed my muscles – probably a little too much so, as I found it hard just to get my arms to reach my head so I could shampoo my hair. My phone rested on the vanity unit, but, annoyingly, it remained still and silent. When I was done, I attempted to attack my growing pile of homework – but it was hard to concentrate on pi and square roots when waiting for a call.

This wasn’t the first time I’d had this obsessive fixation over a boy – only this time was different because he didn’t know my name, and it was via texting. I had done this before – over the internet, by mail, and even in person, and it had all gone horribly wrong. After I had cried all the pain out of my heart – the blank disappointment, the cold rejection, the bitter resentment – I swore to myself, each time, that I would never let it happen again. But then I’d see a beautiful boy and step into the trap again, deluding myself with things like ‘this one is different’ or ‘this will end differently’. I forgot the pain that the end brought – I only remembered the thrill of love.

Finally, after an agonizing five-hour wait, my phone buzzed at 10:03.

‘Hey, sorry about the wait. Mum forced me 2 go out 4 dinner with her bf’

I just gazed at the words, the words that had saved me from insanity. My maths lay abandoned on my table as I lolled on my bed, wishing that the words had a double meaning. My phone buzzed again.

We chatted a bit, about innocent stuff – school and homework and annoying teachers. But the mystery surrounding my name was always in the offing. Finally, he caved.

‘Can u please tell me who u r? I’m beggin u’

My reply consisted of only one flirtatious word: Guess.

‘U always make me guess’ he complained sixty-three seconds later.

‘I no. It’s very entertaining’

It took him a little while to reply to that one – I suppose he was trying to think of a girl that he hadn’t mentioned before.

‘Leanne?’

I sighed, raw pain rippling through my heart. Leanne was bold, blonde, and beautiful. He could not have named a girl more different to me.

‘Ur way off. Try again’

‘I’m always way off. Sarah? Naomie? Cynthia?’

There was something different about that message – different to the sickly sweet persuation that filled his messages before. There was an undercurrent of...anger? annoyance? I shook my head to get rid of the negative thought. I was reading too deep into a message that only comprised of seven words.

‘No. Try again’

‘Jessica. That’s my last guess. Seriously. I’m running out of credit’

His abrupt change of mood in his messages was really scaring me. It was so sudden, and so unpredictable. I thought he was having just as much fun as I was, maybe more.

But I wasn’t an idiot. It ended here.

‘Fine. I’m the year eight kid in ur English class. I transferred a few weeks back’

My thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button. Could I push my luck a bit more? Tease him for just a little bit longer?

Something crashed downstairs, and my hand squeezed my phone instinctively. I watched numbly as the message sent.

The next ten minutes were the longest minutes of my life. If he was hoping for Leanne, then there was no way on earth he would be thrilled to find out it was just a scrummy year eight.

My obsession with this boy had been like an addiction to an illict drug. The thrill of my phone buzzing, his caller ID flashing across the screen, brought on a complete, ultimate high. It made me feel loved, cherished, wanted. Teasing him made me feel like I had complete and utter control, something I had never had before. It was as if nothing could go wrong.

But everything did. As usual.

My phone buzzed again, but it brought no supernatural high. It was a devillish, cruel sound.

I cried for the first time over this boy as I read his reply.

***

I hadn’t heard anything from the boy for three weeks. When we passed by each other in person, he ignored me. It was as if I had ceased to exist. The only messages I got were from Karl, who was on holiday interstate, checking on me.

But I didn’t give up on hope. Maybe he’s just taking time to mull things over, I thought desperately. Back away and give him time. He’ll come to me.

It was desperate, wild hope. And it was all in vain.

Because, on the first day of the heavy rains, I saw him with another girl – I didn’t know her name. She was blonde and tall and skinny and gorgeous. They were kissing.

He didn’t look up as fierce, agonized sobs ripped from my chest.

***

I stood in the downpour, right in the centre of the oval. I could faintly hear people sniggering and laughing at me, even through the roar of the heaven’s aggressive tantrum. My phone lay open in my hand, getting destroyed by the rain. My hair hung limply around my shoulders, too soaked to be bullied by the wind that gushed past me, icy cold. But I barely registered the cold, or the wet. It didn’t really occur to me exactly how much of an idiot I looked, just staring into the sky. I could vaguely hear the seniors jeering, the teachers yelling, but I didn’t move. Disappointment and rejection kept me locked in place like a dead weight as I stood in the middle of the fierce storm.

I liked the rain. When the heavens cried so violently, no-one noticed my tears.

The story is based on a real story - a real story that is happening to me at the moment. I've dramatized it, changed it here and there, but all of it is true. The narrator is based on me, obviously, and I doubt the boy who 'The Boy' is based on actually reads this blog. The character of Karl is based on one of my friends, Kyle, although the relationship between Karl and the Narrator is closer than my friendship with Kyle. The Carmen Electra bit is something I made up - and Kyle, you can't complain, because that's payback for spreading rumours about me. Not that you read this anyway. If you are mentioned in this story (or think you are, although I doubt it, because there are only like three characters, one of which is me), be warned that I did extend on characters to make them larger than life, and I changed names and everything.

It's not very good - I've never been good at short stories - and I didn't do a lot of character development - the most developed character is probably Karl. Please don't ask me what the narrator and the boy's name is, because they haven't got names in this story. I tried to focus less on insignficant details and more on the raw emotion.

I know you guys read my blog, and I know you haven't been commenting in a while, but please, *please*, give me some feedback. Please.

Hey Guys. Back to Normal.

Sorry about the last couple of posts. I just wanted to make it clear I'm not taking any shit from this blog.

Anyway...it's raining! Finally. There was one hell of a storm yesterday, and it shows no sign of letting up. I got a revolting sore throat from the chill, but it was worth it. I have perfect inspiration for my short story I have to hand in to my English teacher on Monday. I needed something to enhance the dramatic storyline - and rain was perfect. I'll post the story on my blog once it's finished and polished - I've just drafted it, it still needs a lot of work. I stayed away from intricate descriptions, just sticking to basic adjectives and I didn't do a lot of character development - I focused on raw emotion. It's also one of my shorter stories, too - the word limit was 2000, and my story is 1882, but it will probably be longer once it's been buffed.

One question - what do you think when it rains? Does it symbolize anything? Does it mean anything more to you than just water hitting the ground?

Compromises...

Some people are like 'Can you *not* blog about me? I mean, you haven't, but can you not write about me on the internet? I love your blog, though"

Whoah, whoah. Like I said before, this is my blog. Not yours. If you make me promise that I won't write about you and then you go bitch the shit out of yourself about me, then I'm gonna write about it - to hell with all promises. The teachers at our school may not listen to me, but rest assured my readers in the States and Sri Lanka and my friends here in Oz will.

I will make one tiny compromise - if I write something about you that doesn't involve you spreading rumours about me to the entire cosmos, then I may consider taking it down or editing it if I think it's too personal to blog about.

Other people say 'Can you blog about this? And this? Just so people see me in a better light. You make me sound like such a nun'

Sorry, but I don't find some stuff very appealing, and neither do my readers. I know it's very important to you, but I don't think my readers will be overly impressed if I dedicate an entire post to who's dating who when they don't know who you are. Sorry.

No compromises there, unless I find what you want me to write genuinely interesting.

Other people say 'What you wrote about me is not fair. I didn't mean it that way. Honest'.

I saw it, I heard it, and it was directed at me. I have the right to document it how I saw it. I don't have the option of running and screaming to teachers on account of the fact that some teachers don't like me, and the people who do like me are under the people who don't like me. So this is a compromise, in a way - I can't get you in detention but I can let my friends across the world know how horrible you are.

Some apologies that I have to make and accept:

Thanks for writing that comment, youknowwho. I'm not removing the post or changing it in any way but I'm accepting your apology, if that's what your comment was. I was just hurt and upset and angry when I posted it, so it might have thrown you into a negative light. Good luck with the girl ;).

I'm sorry if you don't like these compromises, but this is all I'm prepared to do.

I'm also sorry if you don't like my blog - there are better blogs out there, but I'm not changing mine when I have lots of followers (don't laugh, some of them aren't following officially, but they're there!) just to please one person.

But You're Asian.

So?

Whenever someone says 'So, what's your favourite subject at school?' I immediately say English, unless I'm stoned and say something completely stupid, like Science. It makes perfect sense for me to like English the best - I love literature and poetry and creative writing, and I'm pretty damn good at it - I'm not showing off, because I got the statistics to prove it. And to level out the ballgame, I just failed Science.

See? Perfect logic. I like English because I'm good at it.

Some people, however, do not see my brilliant logic. This complete look of blank confusion flickers over their face, and they say 'But you're Asian!'

And? So? Being Asian doesn't mean I'm any good at Maths and Science or that I have to like them. Being Asian doesn't mean that I can't kick your ass when it comes to English and get my ass kicked in return when it comes to anything else.Being Asian doesn't mean I feed exclusively on kung pow chicken and mu shu pork, neither of which I have actually tried before. Being Asian doesn't mean I'm an acne-ridden computer nerd that goes around with double-cuffed pants and centre part ponytails or gross things like that.

I'm Asian. And an English student.

That actually kind of sounds good together.

to all my darling new readers...

You're perfectly welcome to read my blog. Just don't tell me what and what not to post, because I'll listen politely and then go behind your back and do whatever I want. My blog. All me. Not you.



By the way, I'm not really *bullying* anyone one this blog, I just tell it like it is, so to speak. I, unlike some, do not spread untrue rumours all over the school and the internet and to every other school in the state. But if someone bitches about *me* or hurts me in any way, yeah, I'm gonna blog about it. It's my right.



So, go ahead, read my blog. Have fun. There are just three rules.



1. Don't tell me what to post, or what not to post. My blog, my rules, my life. I don't listen to anybody when it comes to what I post. Don't get offended - I don't even listen to my mother when it comes to what I blog about, and my mum is my best friend and I normally do listen to her.



2. Please don't post any rude comments. Contrary to popular belief, I actually don't go out of my way to write anything rude - I am blunt and that's that, but I try not to be rude - so it's just courtesy that you do the same.



3. If you're going to comment, PLEASE DO NOT POST AS 'ANONYMOUS', or if you do, sign off with something I will recognise to be you. I have lots of unsigned 'anonymous' commenters at the moment, some of which have posted rather rude things, which is unfair seeing as the people who do comment as 'anonymous' are my best friends and sometimes when it's late and I'm tired and I'm reading all these rude comments I don't notice there's no signature, and I immediately think one of them have posted it. Oh, and I do have a pretty good idea who those anonymous commenters are, by the way. I'm not stupid.



Most people say: Why do you blog, anyway? Just tell teachers if something is wrong.



Well, for starters, some of the bullying actually *does* come from my teachers - my science teacher and my year coodinator, for starters. So what good is it to complain? I'll wind up in detention or something stupid. Besides, what do teachers do about bullying? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They give us all this bull about all these anti-bullying campaigns, but after eight and a half years of being consistently picked on, you start to doubt their word a bit. Just a little bit.



And also, when I blog, I have ultimate freedom, and call me old fashioned, but I actually *do* like my freedom. I feel robbed of my freedom all the time - especially at school, where some teachers blackmail me into agreeing with things I don't agree with. Of course, I do try not to use names, and I have never used a last name at all on my blog, so all identities are safe. But what this blog is for is to provide entertainment for my friends, and so I can express my opinions without having a gun at my head.


And the last thing is that this is my way of showing off what I can do. Athletes run races and get standing ovations and big shiny medals. I rant on a blog that about 20 people read and only 8 people read seriously.

Yeah, I Know I'm Fat. Get Over It.

It's actually kind of freaky that my weight bothers other people more than it bothers me.

And believe me, I am trying to get healthy and do more exercise - which is kind of hard, seeing as I'm a foodaholic and my heart condition leaves me breathless even after running just a few short metres. The only person that is allowed to tell me to lose weight is my mother, because she's the only person out there who doesn't say it out of pure spite. Oh, and my sister. If you're not lucky enough to call yourself either of those, BUTT THE HELL OUT.

And I'm not even fat! 47.5 kilos (104.5 lbs) at my age is not fat! I'm only a size nine, dammit. That's like, a size seven or something in America. In the 1500's, my body would be more prized than Keira Knightley's - but no, now we live in the stupid 21st century, where skinny is good and skinnier is better.

Well, to hell with that. Real women have curves.

And I love my curves, and I don't give a shit if you don't.