It's quite fun being a teenage girl. But when I say fun, I also mean wince-inducing and horrifying. For example, I got a bit enthused watching Drop Dead Fred with my BFFs this weekend and decided to let Franny butcher my hair into a bob with what I now realise were large toenail scissors. So, it was sort of fun in that spontaneous, sleepovery sense, I guess, but completely horrifying in that my hair now looks less Winona Ryder and more recently divorced geography teacher trying and failing to recapture that fleeting post-punk phase they had in university.
Anyway, nobody’s paying any attention to my hair. Instead, the whole sixth form is in a state of priapic frenzy because the drama students had their exam piece performance this week. Not because the 11 kids who showed up found the adaptation of Strindberg deeply moving, but because everyone present saw teen heartthrob Jason’s ball-sack slither out of his hot-pants during a Brechtian rendition of “My Heart Will Go On”. Yeah, I didn’t know that was a thing, either.
Naturally I wasn’t there, because I am far too busy to mess around with after-school activities, but I must admit the thought of it has rekindled the burning flame of desire I’ve harboured for Jason since he played Toad of Toad Hall in the Christmas production last year. He’s kind of ignoring everyone right now, though – I think the fame might have gone to his head and plunged him into some horribly depressing introspective state, the poor thing. The drama bunch haven’t attracted this much attention since they put on a production of Grease and a lower-school geography teacher got caught sniffing Sandy’s shiny black trousers.
It’s pretty safe to say that not only Ballsy J, but all seven of the Sylvia Young stage school rejects are l-o-v-i-n-g their newfound celebrity. They’re even allowed to eat their falafel wraps in the common room now, which has been illegal for, like, years. Obviously I’m completely rhapsodic with glee that Jason’s jawline is now within touching proximity, but I’m kind of incredibly sick of watching Chloe the “real” actress (she was in The Bill once, apparently) do pre-lunch meditations in the fucking lotus position.
Serious Q: when did it become acceptable for white girls to wear bindis? Is there an app I can download to get rid of them? Mind you, there’s no point in freaking out over it; I overheard Horribly Sporty Lesley mutter to her harem of sports-queens that if the drama students keep hogging the mirrors (a properly dishevelled sports pony-tail takes a long time to perfect, you know) and eating all the canteen salad (which looks like somebody has already eaten it, but whatever), she’s going to “skull-fuck a bitch with a rounders bat”. Bad news, Chloe: Horribly Sporty Lesley is probably not giving you an “aromatherapy calming candle” for Secret Santa again this year.
Still, I’ve never been so happy it’s the end of term, because despite my shit haircut and penchant for eating Twiglets with my mouth open, a particularly odious specimen from lower-sixth (yes, lower sixth! Gross!) has deemed me “proper wifey material” and keeps following me around. I’m not adverse to admirers, but this one has one hand permanently roaming around his areas and the other shovelling Smarties into his chomping little trap. Not hygienic.
“Berlindaaarh”, he drawls in his best badman accent, “don’t waste your paper buying sweets; I’ll rack them for you any day, yeah?” Which would actually be totally endearing if he wasn’t called James Bruggerton-Snythe and live in a huge, disgustingly tasteful mansion. Is there anything less appetising in a sixth-form common room than a townhouse-dwelling prat hiding his mummy’s boy accent under a thick cloud of Lynx Africa? Not likely. Well, apart from that tuna panini someone left under the sofa cushion last March.
Speaking of misguided zeal, apparently a year ten pulled a pen knife on a classmate over a bag of curly fries yesterday, which kind of beggars belief because the chips here are so vile. I wouldn’t even risk breaking a nail for them, let alone two months’ after-school detention with a youth-worker. My guess is that it was probably just a testosterone-fuelled fib to win the affections of a 14-year-old Topshop-clad princess.
Urgh, I just caught the reflection of my fringe and Dr Martens combo in the double doors of the science block. I look like the manager of a rural Urban Outfitters. Sometimes I really wish I still had my sexy Catholic school uniform; the hooker-skirt and knee socks combo made everyone look like they were starring in an XXX remake of St Trinians. Plus, the polyester blouses made you smell so bad that even the most determined suitors would back off in disgust. Oh, to be young and smelly once more. Is it too soon to get my hymen replaced?
Previously: I'm Going to Seduce My New Teacher
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