The clock strikes eight on a Thursday morning, and I am in my first period class. My calculus teacher is explaining a problem on the board with alarming fervor, but I personally could not care less. I have never felt so enervated in my entire life. I try to focus, but my eyes are closing and my head is slowly drooping. Stay awake! I silently berate myself, and my head jolts back into place. However, my eyelids still feel like two lead weights and before I know it, my eyes are closing and I am unable to stop myself from slipping into unconsciousness.

I snap out of my trance just as my forehead is mere inches away from the surface of the desk. I must look so ridiculous, bobbing my head up and down like some narcoleptic freak. Resisting the urge to slam my head against the desk and fall into a deep sleep, I get up from my seat and stumble out the door.

I stagger into the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Oh God. I look like such a mess. I could pretend that my bloodshot eyes and corpselike countenance are blatant manifestations of the mere four hours of sleep I got last night, the night before that, and the night before that. But I know that it’s much more than just fatigue. Not only are my eyes fighting to stay awake, but also my muscles, bones, and brain are protesting against the injustice that is sleep deprivation. Most importantly, so is my heart.

Here’s the thing. I don’t really care about school. I know I should, and I’ve gotten so much crap from my parents for feeling so indifferent. Honestly, though, can you blame me for not finding calculus irresistibly exciting? Is it so unforgivable that I consider chemistry one of the most tedious subjects I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter? Is it such a blasphemy to declare that although the insurmountable workload here is intended to be academically stimulating, I personally find it unbearably torturous and pointless?

Don’t get me wrong; I understand the importance of receiving a good education, becoming exceedingly knowledgeable, leaving a mark on society, and being revered greatly for generations. After all, I am at a preparatory school; I obviously appreciate quality education. That doesn’t mean that all high school students have to follow the same path. People are different; people like different things. We have individuality. Although all we seem to care about is sex, fashion, and drugs, we adolescents actually possess the uncanny ability to think for ourselves. And indeed, after many years of constant rumination, I have come to realize that certain people are compatible with certain fields of knowledge. Unfortunately, I do not feel comfortable wasting my time on monotonous subjects such as math, science, and all the other boring subjects that I’m required to learn here. It’s just not for me. What are those classes going to help me with in the end? Absolutely nothing.

I don’t understand why people are devoting all their time and energy into college applications. It’s important to get reasonably good grades in high school, but college is so overrated. I mean, it’s not like attending a prestigious university is going to guarantee success for life. What really pisses me off, however, is the fact that I’m forced to join in this strenuous competition myself.

Seriously. All I ever wanted was to write whatever and whenever I wanted. Spilling my thoughts out on a laptop computer or a blank sheet of paper is the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever done. Why won’t anyone just let me pursue my interests and make the most out of them?

I press my forehead against the cool surface of the mirror, and that temporarily alleviates my frustration. In my head, I tell myself repeatedly to work hard. Work hard and it will all be worth it. That’s what the sagacious parental units and the erudite teachers say. They’re smarter than I am, so they must know what they’re talking about. I might as well trust them. Yet somehow, I don’t really buy that theory.

It doesn’t really matter whether I buy it. I honestly don’t have a choice.

With a deep sigh, I walk out of the bathroom and go back into the classroom. As I settle down in my seat, I turn my book to the proper page and attempt to concentrate. I can easily read the numbers and letters on that page, but they mean as much to me as a medley of scribbles drawn by a four-year-old with dull-pointed crayons.

Class is dismissed soon after, and I suddenly feel extremely joyous. I gleefully grab my bag and cram my book, notebook, and pencils into it, perhaps a little too eager to get the hell out of there.

I step outside of the math building. It is a beautiful day. Good weather is usually ephemeral in New England, so it’s best to enjoy it while one can. I bask in the cool breeze that billows my long dark hair and the glowing sunlight that warms my entire body. Today is indeed a beautiful day. It’s absolutely gorgeous.

Now, if only everything else were just as beautiful.