"You'll only really need this if you become an electrician."

There are twenty minutes until the bell ending second period rings; The Bell Jar sits finished in my bag and yesterday's assignment, correct or no (I question whether it truly matters), was turned in in the first five minutes.

The teacher's aid questions how one gets from point A to point B and my Physics teacher shrugs at her and the student she's working with--"you'll only really need this if you become an electrician."

A boy somewhere behind me asserts that it is the teacher's aid's fault that he hasn't finished his worksheet.

"I question the logic in this statement," I say.

"As do I. I suppose in this case we'll just have to deem it illogical and go on with our lives."

"Hey," the boy interjects, "I know big words, too."

"Do you?"

"Only they're all in Spanish."

He means swear words. The teacher's aid gives him a stern look as a beat is skipped.

"What's he doing?" asks the teacher. His face flushes when he's amused, which is often. Divorced with two young children, I question how engaged (or, even, interested) in teaching us he is. Rumors are rumors, but he has grown on me--maybe because of that amused look. Maybe because he's a redhead with a Harry Potter-esque haircut. Maybe many things.

Says the teacher's aid: "He's got some Spanish swear words up his sleeve, only he doesn't have the wherewithal to say them."

The teacher cups a hand over one side of his mouth, whispering: "That's cojones in Spanish."

Dobbin sits behind me as we watch a movie in Sociology, which I realize only as I leave. A notebook is open on his desk, on which his arms are folded and he rests his head. I think, I truly think for a second, without malice: "I hope you're happy." And I walk away. I catapult myself towards my next class, averting my gaze from those who could potentially catch mine, and arrive at my locker even before my classmate and her maybe-maybe-not boyfriend (or else ex-boyfriend) are full into their goodbyes.

It's easier to walk quickly. I wind my way between people and through hallways and feel somehow alive because I am unattached and moving, moving towards something, even if it's only English class and Ye Old Initials.

For those who may be new (are you new? Regardless, I love you deeply.), Dobbin is my jerk of an ex-boyfriend. We dated for two months, at which point he broke up with me via text message and proved himself to be a big fat liar, and while I am generally healed following the debacle, he is still a source of slight annoyance in my life. Sometimes I write about it. Okay, I write about it often, but this is the way it is.

Writing about things allows me to find what might be hurtful amusing rather than tragic.

(Also, for reference purposes, I always change names here. Except for here, as it amused me, and of those who actively read my blog. I hope you know who you are, as you are truly truly amazing. Maggie, Lydia, Manar, Rachel, Dave, mom, and others... I am blessed.)

In my last three classes I find myself half asleep. In Sociology we watch Remember the Titans, in English we watch Hamlet, and in Government we are given a review I finish in the first five minutes of the period. I only have one book with me, and I finished it hours ago. I doodle giraffes and checkerboards on a sheet of paper until the words I am trying to find spill into another page.

Revelation regarding today's youth: a large number can't read cursive. I might as well be writing in code.

The weather this week has been cold enough to warrant a letter regarding possible "severe weather" given to all students. We're not talking about snow, of which we hear rumors of about once a year: if it freezes and there is any ice, all the schools in our (albeit small and independent) school district will close.

Welcome to tiny town Texas.

In other riveting news, this week is our annual (?) stock show. Many kids are out showing stock (?) in the newfound cold (!), for which I have heard there are possible Magic Awards and glitter parties.

(I really wish there were glitter parties.)

As such, we don't have school on Friday (or Monday, coincidentally, thanks to Marin Luther King Jr.). I'm not complaining.

Even if I don't understand it.