Every day in Creative Writing, my butt suffers an “accidental” kick through the hole in my chair's back -- this is the least agitating part of class. I love to write, so you'd think that I'd look forward to Creative Writing. Unfortunately, this class is bogged down with four breeds of human-resembling students that seem to be set on ruining it for me. This is a typical day in fourth period:

Before we share our homework in groups, our teacher asks everyone to state what his or her poem is about.
"A medieval romance!" proclaims the eccentric who secretly writes erotic fan fiction about Hannibal Lecter.
"Blood," growls Voldemort's apprentice.
"Winter," mutters the girl who was forced into this class.
"Cheeseburgers."
Deafening laughter ensues. How is this possibly funny? He said one word, yet the girl next to him looks like she just met an attractive Louis C. K. – the crown of perfection. Apparently, popularity makes you funny as well. Any word from these "Gods of the ninth grade" is an infected needle to the fickle veins of my moronic classmates. Any imbecile from this clique could sing the names of Nazi death camps and still get a giggle out of their pre-pubescent groupies.

Once the class composes itself, it's time for us to share our poems with our league of literary misfits.

"Okay guys, I wrote this poem in, like, five seconds," swears the dolt that is only here because being a freshman essentially eliminated her choices for electives. Usually, the members of the I-don't-want-to-be-here group solely write poems about either sports or weather. Their neglect towards this class especially irks me because I begged for over two years before getting to be here. They drag through this class by barely reaching the minimum line requirement -- each line composed of one or two words ("for dramatic effect," they'll assure the suspicious teacher).

I’ll spend as much time describing the popular kids’ work as they spend completing it. Everything is about food.

The dementors, conversely, aren't without skill in writing; they have the talent to shamelessly disclose personal issues that make you both depressed and fearful for your safety. Tim Burton's fugitive Claymation doll mops some of her mascara off of the desk and proceeds to share her poem. "I hate him. I think about his face dying when I slice apples. Sorrow." A strained second of silence precedes our quiet applause. This is usually when the popular kids step in (if they aren't too busy snickering with their friends). "Who was that about?" a bouncy nitwit asks. "Everyone in my family," the shadow-lurker answers, scribbling blood on her paper. Edgar Allan Poe would be a comic relief at this point.

A common misconception would be that the grim ones are freaks, but even they can't live up to the standards that the freaks in my class have exemplified. It is inconceivable that these people have interacted with coherent peers until this point in time. Their I'm-too-talented attitude places them beyond sympathetic socializing even more than the baffling fact that they either don't know or care about how uncomfortable everyone feels in their presence. Their pressed whispers mock the popular kids' snide remarks, but I don't turn to see two people talking; freaks don't need partners to have conversations. If you've ever been on a public bus, you've seen a freak or two mumbling to themselves. Now, take those freaks, sit down with them, and listen to their "deep" poetry. That’s what I do in fourth period.

Thickening the morose atmosphere, the nearest neurotic demands our attention, clears her throat, and begins. "The king… grips… his sword," she starts theatrically, pausing to make sure that we are enraptured by the obvious skill gap she sees separating us. "A snake… the instrument… of his demise.” The lights dim. “Taken aback, he screams, ‘BEGONE, FOUL ONE!’” she wails, jerking us from our sleep-like state. Thank God, she’s done.

Finally, there is only one person left to share: the loner. She’s the older one who works feverishly on assignments; once she finishes, she even reads intently, just to avoid the realization that she secretly envies the “populars” and slackers -- they aren't companionless. I could pity her, but she pities no one. She harshly judges the so-called “freaks” and “dementors” without accepting that she’s an outcast as well. This cruel snob doesn't pause to consider their hardships; she categorizes them. She used to be me, until I realized that of all the types of people in my fourth period, I was the worst.