Terminal Case of the Mondays


I’m dying of a long, slow, debilitating illness called the Mondays. I’m one in 6 billion suffering from this disease, but my case is terminal. Sure, there are people out there dying of cancer or restless leg syndrome, but what about me? I wake up at dawn to go to a school filled with hypocrites and serial killers. I get to my first hour with black eyes and battle scars from having to push my way through villainous teenagers who only care about brutalizing strangers. One of these days some unknown 11th grader is going to shatter a bottle on my face and I won’t be able to anything about it. When I finally get to my first hour, I must endure an hour and a half of college lecture on the history of art. This is the class I like most, but it’s not necessarily a morning pick-me-up.

The bell finally howls and it’s a bloody free-for-all to get out of the portables. Any route you take is blocked off by teenage maniacs in no hurry to get to class. Most of the time it’s like a cattle drive until you get out into a clearing of open grass. By then, I’m practically running to get to the 200s building. I usually am on the second flight of stairs when the warning bell rings. I race to my Chemistry class, making it inside right before the real bell sounds off. As mentally grueling as my first hour was, Chemistry is an entirely different story. The first test we took, thirteen people failed. On Mondays, we normally do F-cat prep and take a seemingly endless amount of notes on subjects such as the dual-wave particle nature of light. I’m sorry if others find it interesting, but I’d rather swallow a razor blade or accidentally sever a limb with a chainsaw than sit through that for an hour and a half. Not to mention, I have no friends in that class.

At 10:59, I find ways to stall my arrival at the dreaded 3rd hour. I socialize with all of the friends I can find, walk around several buildings, pretend to get lost, and talk to my imaginary boyfriend. Somehow, I am never late, a relief, but also a tragedy. There I take lesson quizzes, copy thousands of theorems, postulates, and corollaries, and write out proof after proof until my fingers fall off. My teacher isn’t unpleasant. She even looks like my hero, Amy Sedaris. I just don’t understand how someone could teach that all day. Until recently, it was more bearable because I sat next to my friend. We didn’t really talk in class; we just had an understanding. The understanding being that the people in that class are the most obnoxious people ever to live. If I never cross paths with a single one of them again, it will be too soon.

Lunch comes like a blessing from above. I walk out with my friend, only to be handled by other people. I’m told to go this way or that way, sometimes I refuse. If I refuse, I am then forced to stand all alone like the social pariah I know I am, often calling my mom for emotional support. Don’t get me wrong, I tend to have great lunch periods; It’s just the bad ones I remember. One friend will carry me off like a little dog telling me to “come” or “stay” while she shamelessly flirts with every senior she can get her hands on. I’m forced to watch while these male seniors ignore my presence or pretend to know my name, which they’ve already forgotten since yesterday. I’ll get a hug or a wink from a more pleasant senior, but mostly I spend my day calculating ways to get of the situation. Other times I’ll sit with an alternate group of friends. It’s enjoyable, but they love to put me in positions where I’m forced to talk to a person that hates me.

After returning to my 3rd hour, I deal with another hour of unadulterated boredom before being dismissed. I walk to my English class with my friend, meeting up with other people along the way. The stairways are horribly ventilated, so I’m drenched in sweat and panting like a dog when I get to English. My English teacher is out of her mind; everyone knows it. Many find that it makes the class more interesting. I’m always taken aback by how painfully upbeat and perky she is. The room is decked out in pink, feathers, and glitter. I think it’s the girliest classroom I’ve ever been in. We have seat changes every few days. By changes I mean the desks are rearranged into every possible formation available. The only thing left is a six-pointed star, unless the amoeba trend is back. I’m convinced some of the people in that class have nervous conditions. The shaking, incessant talking, gum-smacking, hair-twirling, and overall annoyance never ceases to upset me. I usually leave that class as stressed as I came in. I like all of the writing assignments and grammatically speaking, I’ve improved a great deal. Still, the make-your-own test days or fatal group projects have traumatized me. By the end of the day I’m worn out and in a Michael Myers-y mood. The really scary part is that it’s only Monday.