I'm the "grief stricken" gaggle of 11th grade girls homing-in on news cameras out front, following the tragic accident that killed 3 other students.
We'll insist the dead kid was our "best friend" and that "EVERYONE loved him" and gradually, with Navy Seal like accuracy manage to make said tragedy all about us as we sob and claim we were invited along/almost engaged to said dead kid and the tragic road trip when, in reality, we mocked him mercilessly or never talked to him in the first place.
Caitlynn Brianne, 11th grade student council secretary
OMG I am sooooo sad!!! Like we were texting the other day and I was like OMG I have this like weird feeling and she was like OMG I like totally know what you mean!!! I swear, it like could have been ME driving into that tree while applying my makeup!!!
Wow OP, kind of dark, no?
I'm the cake left out in the rain
I'm the fat kid that makes his way into every group hug on camera.
I remember when my dead best friend said, "let's just send some weed over to Israel and mellow them out a little."
I'm the girl who refused to wear shorts in gym because my legs are pasty white...now they are even more pasty white.
I'm the photo of the student and flowers placed on a lightpole.
I couldn't decide between a stuffed animal, a mylar balloon, a candle, a hallmark card and a supermarket bouquet, so I brought them all. It's the least I can do, right?
I'm the gas station teddy bear that the creepy guy who has no connection whatsoever to the incident leaves at the scene.
I'm the page in the yearbook memorializing the dead.
Even the fonts are tragic.
cryng as i txt n drive
I'm the candlelight vigil.
I'm the circle of fat girls huddle together, embracing during the candlelight vigil.
We're sobbing non-stop but we'll be sure to turn it up a notch when Action News cameras pan toward us.
I'm the Facebook posting that reads "I will miss u & ur light".
I'm the establishing shots of the high school and the student parking lot.
i am the facebook memorial page urging people to like me like me c'mon PLEASE LIKE ME
I'm the assistant football coach who fucked the dead kid, kicking back and having a beer over the lucky break.
He threatened me if I didn't buy him a new car!
I'm the tacky "school spirit" cheer led by an overwrought teenage boy in a hoodie that provides cathartic release to raging hormones in the crowd. 9 out of 10 of the boys have erections from all the hugging and touching, which makes them feel even guiltier and more grief-stricken.
I'm the head grief counselor!
I'm Monday. I don't care if that weird little girl didn't like me. She didn't have to shoot them kids.
"We need to take better care of each other" says the popular girl who is going to college out of state and never plans to return.
I'm the inevitable kid who'll start an 'organization' make make people 'aware' of the dangers of texting while driving/drinking while driving/bullying/huffing glue.
My mom will spend a couple of hours trying to get me a mention on the 5 o'clock news and, when I do, I'll go from unknown to A-list and may even be invited by some kids to the homecoming game!
That television cameraman is waiting for me to bend over. I can tell. He will not be disappointed as my expanse will be epic and likely make national.
I am the busybody frau who pushes several girls out of the camera range and tearily bellows "This is wrong! We aren't supposed to live longer than they do!!!"
I'm the inevitable emergency school meeting that will take place in order to make all parents aware that the school will be open during the weekend should their precious spawn require grief counseling.
I'm the awful yearbook photo of the victim who would totally KILL their parents for allowing that to make it on the air.
I'm the copious amounts of pot and booze that will be consumed the following weekend because "the dead kid would have wanted it that way."
I'm the same gaggle of 3 fat girls who lingered in front of the TV cameras and wailed loudly at the school assembly following the tragedy, now sobbing at the grave-side service, huddled together holding white carnations..
The victim's parents have absolutely no idea who I am or why I'm there and nobody can remember seeing me ever talk to the dead kid, but I'm milking this shit till the last drop of sympathy-by-association is drained.
Tammy, Amber and Shelia
I am "Amazing Grace," the song that groups of huddled teens will drone over and over again on the school lawn even though they don't know most of the words and the dead teen's parents are Jewish and do not appreciate hearing this Christian hymn sung to honor their child.
I realize Jayson was captain of the football team and everything, but there were two other kids killed in that crash!! Don't exchange student Lumumba Bekeyone and the retarded kid deserve some of our attention? Does anyone know if Lumumba was a boy or a girl?
I'm the skid marks.
I'm the moment of silence that will be observed at every sporting event in every sport for the rest of the year. I'm the black armband that will be worn for one game by the basketball team, and then worn for two more weeks after it seemed like a good luck visitation: until the embarrassing loss to the cross-town rival, after which the armbands will disappear with no publicity.
I'm the 3/4 of the school who will take the day off to attend the funeral even though only about 10% of us knew the deceased.
I'm the 30 who will actually show up for the funeral instead of getting high with the 75%.
I'm the local reporter Steven who doesn't hear his cue and is heard saying live on Action News "All these hot teenage boys is making mommy's mussy moist."
OMG--I hear the retarded kid was pregnant with Jayson's baby and the accident may have been murder/suicide.
I'm the lunch lady who's hiding behind the heating tables.
I'm the Goth kids who sit together at lunch. Our lives do not change one iota.
I'm the captain of the cheerleaders brainstorming about how her squad can take the lead in pulling school spirit together and getting everyone through this tragedy with some special changes to a cheer.
She's thinking of replacing, "GO COUGARS LET'S GO!!!" with "COME ON COUGARS LET'S ALL GO!!!"
I'm the grief counselor who wants to tell all you sniveling brats to grow up and get over it. Shit happens.
I'm Miley Cyrus, tweeting my sympathy.
I am the hysterical, weeping sophomore girl who keeps falling to the ground who doesn't have a clue who the victims of the tragedy were.
I'm the janitor who's always in overalls and seems to spend a lot of time in the janitor's closet.
Those overalls don't have pockets, you know.
I'm the dead gay son!
I'm the anal beads
I'm the vicious rumor that she shit her panties when the tragedy happened.
I'm the NRA rep. telling the media that guns don't kill people. People kill people.
I am the black nothingness descending on this shallow, materialistic world.
Ravyn Nightshade, sophomore
I'm Val, the dead teen's aunt and his grieving family's spokeswoman.
I'll contact the local media when the city takes down the homemade roadside memorial off of public property in fifteen months.
I claim to be speaking on behalf of my shy older sister who is still frozen with grief. That being said, behind my righteous working class indignation ("so the city doesn't have nothing better to do? For us, it's like Colton's been killed all over again!"), there lies the undeniable fact that I just had a fresh set of foil highlights done at the mall and am wearing a boobier top than would be strictly appropriate for the six o'clock news (I slept with 4 black guys after I was on TV the first time!)
I'll make sure to plug the foundation we started, against my sister's quietly tearful pleading, to raise awareness about the dangers of fourwheeling while drunk. We have a facebook page!
The plot of "Heathers" was inspired by this phenomenon.
I am the snow white coffin soon covered with Sharpie induced signatures and notes:
I am the closeted gay kid who's trying to hide the massive, throbbing erection I got from group-hugging the hot jock I lust over. I will be masturbating furiously the moment I get home today.
I'm the cynical, droll narrator in the dark comedy motion picture that was partly inspired by this tragedy.
I'm the butch lesbian gym teacher who is the ringleader of all the group grief-counseling sessions.
No mention of me? Typical.
Stupendously lame white male HS principal in a grey suit
This isn't funny. Are you guys all sociopaths or what?
R56 gets morally outraged reading The Onion.
I'm Cheryl's pussy and I stink.
I'm the fence on which the kids insist on imposing flowers and teddy bears, year after year.
Will I ever be undecorated?
I'm the double dipping principal (retired and rehired) who saw all the warning signs but was more concerned with my golf game (that I am now late for).
That's OK R60, that weekend seminar on gang activity could not prepare you for something like this.
Woman Vice Principal, gunning for your title
I'm the magnificent tree on the school campus, laden with spectators who have climbed into my branches for a better view of the school's "grief rally," that suddenly snaps under the load and crashes to the ground, adding to the death toll.
I'm the bitter female assistant principal, quietly fuming that I've not been interviewed by one reporter or asked to speak at one rally or branch-off memorial service. Not once! The goddamn sudent government president and principal get all the fucking attention. They're all misogynists. Even the women! How dare they silence my voice!
Things are going to change around here once I'm running the place. People think they hate me now? haha! Well, just you wait.
Helen Haverford-Bitterman, I have a masters in education. A MASTERS!
I am the lonely student who late one night trashes the display of flowers, candles and teddy bears because the dead kids get more attention from the teachers than he does, and he's still alive.
(That's OK R64, you're about to 'discover' a band that no one else has heard of called The Smiths. Then you'll go on to be the emo lead singer in a ripoff band and maybe finally get some respect from all the phonies at school)
Woman Vice President
Make that Woman Vice Principal ^ at R65
I'm a blood stained book about the Honey Badger, sitting in the library cart and I still don't give a shit.
I'm the mailers from Jostens, The Class Ring Specialists, that the dead kid's parents will continue to receive for months.
I'll share the mailbox with the bitchy letters from the photographer that the proofs for the senior class photos are ready. They photographer will eventually send the bill to collection.
I'm Kelly Osbourne and I can't breath [sic] right now!
So far, this thread makes fun of girls, women, "fat" kids and "retarded" kids. Hmmm...
Best thread in weeks.
I'm class president and the captain of the football team, and everyone expects me to have something wise and sympathetic to say. I have just as little experience with this sort of thing as the rest of the Student Body, so I fall back on movie cliches.
Years later, as I watch my wife dying of cancer, I remember how I spouted off those words, even as I spout them off to the relatives gathered around her bed.
I'm the obvious gay drama kid who when asked if I'm gay I deny it, and then I tell the girls who asked me that how offended I was by their question and that I'm not one of them. Guys on the football team ask if I'm a faggot. I laugh and so no. They say, "dude, don't be a fuckin' faggot." I'm cowardly. Scared. And afraid of everything gay. I've tried to kill myself because I'd rather be dead than gay. I'm a victim. Instead of fighting back, I hide, cry, and run away...or try to kill myself, because that's what everybody else does. Suicide is in.
I'm the teachers in the faculty lounge talking about the dead kid, and while no one comes right out and says it, it becomes obvious that none of us ever had a single real interaction with him.
I'm R70 and R73, the same person.
...and I'm a thread killer. I enjoy showing up at parties I'm not invited to and make everyone absolutely miserable to the point they go away.
I have no friends and people whom I think of as my friends, including family and coworkers all complain behind my back. I'm dreaded by everyone.
I'm the Jew out for the week celebrating Hanukah so I can't mourn the death of the gay student's suicide.
I'm the straight high school football player who, in an impromptu moment of famewhoring during the school memorial shouts "We're gonna win the next game for [the dead kid]! ..and the next one, and the next one...and the one after that! YEAH!"
I never gave the dead kid the time of day and there's a chance I used to beat him up in the 5th grade, but this'll get me noticed by the lurking college scout.
I'm the collection they take at the Mother's office. The $248 seems low, so the company secretly kicks in to make it $500.
It's to go to a permanent scholarship in the dead kid's memory, but there's a new manager when it's time to fund it for a second year and it's quietly dropped.
I'm Lisa Beamer, out with a new line of "Let's Roll Malted Milk Balls" in honor of the decapitated student's head bouncing down the stairs, which created a bloody puddle the killer slips on.
The writer Florence King wrote about the first three days of Junior high (in the latter 1940s) when on the first day, she was assigned to share a locker with a girl who then threatened to push an ice pick through FL's heart if she dared use the locker. The next day, the girl's dad, an insane vet of Patton's 3rd Army Tank Corps, packed his family into his car and ran it into an oncoming train.
She next described the reaction of the girls in school, where they all cried and mourned for the nice girl whom they all liked (most never had met her, and she was a mean nut), stories that grew into The Legend of Harriet Mudd.
Then her grandmother forced her to go to the wake and to the funeral, where more of these classic oddities unfolded, meaning there really isn't much new about any of this.
Still, it wasn't as widespread as it is now -- in my 70s high school, one of my classmates committed suicide and there was no official recognition of the tragedy, let alone news trucks or reporters...
I am head mean girl, Michaela, who was once dead girl Madison's best friend since the 2nd grade, until that fateful day when she spotted all over her light-colored leggings in 7th grade gym class. I quickly turned on her and ridiculed her mercilessly ever since. Now that she's dead, I talk about her as if she had been my BFF. I even asked to be excused from my calculus exam because I was too distraught to study.
I am the insufferable aspiring "folk" musician who hauls out her acoustic guitar and annouces to the group gathered around that she has composed a song of "healing" and starts to sing it, much to the groans of the crowd.
I'm the kid with the same last name as the dead guy. Everyone will treat me strangely for the rest of the year.
And for the 10,000th time, no, we weren't related, and I only kinda knew him because he sat behind me in some classes where they seated us alphabetically.
That's interesting R81, going to look for that story.
A similar thing happened when I was in high school, only it was a freshman who disappeared. Not any sort of acknowledgment or peep from faculty.
I'm the bomb threat that will called into the school next week during the chemistry exam, causing the whole community to feel like it has been pushed to beyond the breaking point.
I am the closeted gay boy who will falsely claim to be the deceased's boyfriend so that nobody will pressure me for the rest of high school because I don't date. I made a point of saying, "Remember me, Mrs. Shannon? Caitlyn told me so much about you, I feel like I've known you my whole life!"
I'm the 80% of the people who volunteer to speak at the candlelight vigil who preface their remarks by "I've only known her a short time," or "although I hardly knew her," or "although we merely acquaintances rather than friends" or "although I didn't know her personally" and then go on to spout their cliche talking points.
Half of them are self-important blowhards who really didn't know the deceased. And half did know her but are trying to distance themselves from the tragedy, as well as from the booze and dope that may have played a role in it.
I am the irritated parent listening to this parade of denial and reminded of some asshole denying Jesus three times. I will talk to Father Guido about this feeling at my next confessional after I swallow his cum.
Don't talk to me about high school tragedies. My best friend, the homecoming queen, washed up by the river, naked and wrapped in plastic.
I am the math test, still being administered despite the death of a popular student in my tiny high school of 300. I am the 90 year old math teacher saying "Donna's death doesn't give you a free pass today."
I'm the black student everyone turns to for support because everyone wants to associate with the black student, which is 99% white suburban kids who love rap. I was given three names by the student body, "The Black Student" unlike the gay student who was only given two, "Fuckin' Faggot" and the Jewish student who was only given one, "Pinocchio". Everybody in town knows where me and my family lives. Some of the parents refer to us as "The Coloreds". I'm popular and was nominated for homecoming court. I'm here for you if ya'll need me.
I'm a condom laying on a soft bed of paper towels in the men's bathroom trash can, my belly full of jock cum.
Fuck those pinche gringos! What do I care?
Eric, do you think this will keep us from graduating?
I'm R91/the black student who, for some reason thinks all the white kids want to be cool with me because I'm really special and, well, all white students are secretly racist anyway.
I like making every issue at the school about racism, thereby making myself a victim and ensuring I'll get tons of attention, kind of like I'm doing in this thread right now. During the school memorial service, I'll find a way to speak and saying something like "even though (the dead kid) didn't really like me because of my race, I loved him because that's what I'm taught to do and I'm keeping my head high, y'all!". I'll get cheers from the crowd.
I'm the math department chair, advising my subordinates to grade on a curve for midterms and go easy on students showing up with late passes to class. I have instructed that Math Mourning only last week, and will be roundly criticized when regular procedure is reinstated. The criticism will come from all my C-minus and D students.
I am the faded pop singer from the 80's looking to latch onto a national controversy and wanting to make it her cause celebre, getting the exact amount of positive press that has eluded her for much of the decade.
I am the airbrushed memorial t-shirt with art work so bad, the deceased looks like Ed Grimley. The TV cameras will make sure that the shirts worn by the popular and hot chicks get a close up, as they hug each other and sob about “how sweet” their dead classmate was, even though they didn’t even KNOW the kid….
I'm the teacher sneaking a smoke in the staff bathroom during the grief assembly because I really, really don't care.
I am the high school marching band that spells out the dead kid's name in formation as a tribute to his memory at half time.
We misspell it.
I'm the red croquet ball.
I'm the paramedic administering oxygen to fainting teenage girls at the funeral, in front of the TV cameras of course. I'm also the paramedic who doesn't notice the Bleacher Creatures trying to break into my ambulance looking for narcotics.
I am the most popular girl at school, and am secretly pissed because I am a senior, this was supposed to be MY year, and now all anyone will be talking about is this stupid tragedy, and not my fabulous new wardrobe and Louis Vuitton purses!
I'm R95, one of the parents of the students of the dead gay kid who committed suicide because he was a beta male. I'm one the parents who refer yo the blacks that live in my town ad "The Coloreds". And, you better believe I know where they live.
I'm the dead kid. None of this shit is really about me.
I'm the Jewish kid sitting in the assembly mourning the dead gay kid with the rest of the school. Except, I'm fighting with the kids who keep throwing off my "beanie" instead of feeling sad. :(
[quote] in my 70s high school, one of my classmates committed suicide and there was no official recognition of the tragedy, let alone news trucks or reporters.
Not to hijack the thread R81, but many psychologists, realizing the adolescent penchant for drama, recommend little in-school acknowledgement of a student's suicide so as not to encourage copy cats.
I'm the yearbook dedication page. Sorry if someone has already claimed it but I'm sure I look better in black.
I am the population of the high school--the fat kids, the nerds, the goths, the theater fags, the stoners and the just plain weirdos--who actually KNEW and was friends the dead kid. We just stand to the side and watch as the jocks, the cheerleaders and the popular kids cry about their "friend" and how much they're going to miss Kathy....or is it Katie?
There are so many copy-cats with gay suicide because of the media and all of this It Get's Better crap, R107.
That's what I thought too, R107, but then there was a lot of coverage of that Palo Alto high school where a bunch of kids walked onto the tracks behind the school to meet oncoming trains. They finally did stop talking about it, but not before four kids and a teacher had killed themselves back there.
I'm the student excited that school is optional on the day of the funeral. Won't be attending either! :)
It's a complicated issue, R110, R111 Maybe for a serious thread.
Fuck it. I'm the copy cat. I got drunk and crashed my car. It is debated whether or not this was on purpose or truly an accident. Sadly, the townspeople are all a little "over it" and my death, which would have been front page news for weeks, garners little notice.
I'm the candles with the plastic cup wind barriers. I'll eventually ignite one of these fucking teddy bears and laugh as the entire 100 yard long 'memorial' fence goes up in flames.
I'm next month's school shooting at the crosstown rival (Panthers Suck!). You'll not only forget all about this dead kid, you'll be jealous that you aren't a Panther.
I'm the untouched plate of food that the already wafer-thin 'grieving' teen girls now have a convienent excuse not to eat.
Tragedy? You want tragedy? I'll show you tragedy!
I am the school's upcoming production of OKLAHOMA featuring a cast of forty who can neither sing, nor dance nor act.
I'm the yearbook deadline. I was last week, and the pages are already at the printers so this tragedy won't get a mention.
At the 10th reunion no one will even remember it happened.
I'm the poem written by the freshman cheerleader filled with grammatical errors like its/it's, there/their, and just desserts.
I'm the slightly musky scent of a seniors boyhole, emanating from the coach's fingers.
I'm part of the human initials we made on the football field at the grief rally.
I'm the bag of stolen teen girl panties that turns up in the custodian's locker during a subsequent search of the school.
I'm Ann Curry, trying (unsuccessfully) to look sympathetic while interviewing the victim's parents.
I'm the cranky neighbor sick-to-fucking-death of the cheap flowers and molting Teddy Bears left along side my picket fence where those damn kids crashed their car while taking cellphone pics of themselves playing group grope. "Texting" -- my Aunt Fanny's butt they were texting.
And YOU...move along and get off my lawn
I'm the back windshield memorials that will be emblazoned on every other car and SUV in the community.
I feature a hazy photo of the dead kids which suggests they're smiling from a heavenly cloud, ages mentioned not in by birth and death dates, but by 'Sunrise' and 'Sunset'.
I'm the slutty atheist goth girl who was the only REAL friend of the deceased. I will attend the funeral where I'll call you all our for being fake and remind you that God does NOT exist. My Christian grandmother will then kick me out of her house and I'll have to go live with my gay best friend.
I'm the "In Memoriam" poster with photos of the dead kids that stands at the entrance of Class of 2012 reunion. No one looks at me.
I'm the giant boulder by the side of the highway where the kids spray- painted R.I.P.! We'll always remember! Olivia 1997-2012 !!!!!!!
I'm the US flag the president ordered to have lowered half-staff in front of every building across the nation after the school shooting that launched a media frenzy.
I'm the "ribbon" made of tacky material in the school colors and sold at all local businesses in an attempt to honor/make money of said tragedy
What color ribbon, R131? The color has to match the meaning of the tragedy...maybe the school colors perhaps?
I'm the stoners passing the bong around and trying to scare each other by embellishing the story of the tragedy.
Within a week it will be accepted fact that they never found the head and it's still out there somewhere along Route 93. Maybe in the ditch or maybe in a tree. Future generations of stoners will spend countless hours looking for it.
This unfortunate school tragedy is yet another example of God's retribution. He has punished us by taking away our children. Why? Because we've turned our backs on Him. By embracing homosexuality and turning away from traditional fidelity, traditional marriage, and traditional child-rearing we have sealed our fate. God does not like where we're heading as a nation, and He will not tolerate it. I hope and pray that on November 6, we elect the right candidate to lead this nation; that we retake America from the hands of the liberals, feminists, homosexuals, abortionists, and non-Christians; and that we put God back in Washington and steer the nation back into His good graces.
Sounds more like Shirley Phelps-Roper than Pat Robertson R134.
Yes, of course, the school colors.
People have to understand that the ribbon is special and unique and different from every other colored ribbon raising awareness.
But if you make it white, or chocolate brown or dark green, people can use their trash bags and not actually have to spend any money to wrap the trees in bows.
I'm the local shrubs, trees and ground cover tangled and littered with the remains of brown, green and white trash-bag memorial ribbons.
I'm the 17 year old black teen who is wearing a hoodie and walking by the funeral when I get shot for suspicious behavior.
I am the meth-addled gun enthusiast who shot R139.
I'm Debi, Schuylar's mom, who intends to attempt a "Mega Ginsburg", and appear on every talk show on TV in one day, announcing my plans for a book and foundation dedicated to my dead kid.
What is wrong with you people?
Over 140 posts and no one mentions the prayers? We must have the prayers! We do not understand the Lord's ways, but we take strength in them. We know He must have needed an angel right now. Please bow your heads....
They came with the candlelight vigils R142. Lots of prayers.
I'm the black reverend who's showed-up to lead a "spirited home going celebration" for the deceased.
Tomorrow I'll be the Catholic priest, very, VERY happy be joining these high schoolers (especially the boys. *wink*) to lead them in a special mass, for those who wish to participate of course. (Psst, I've got a pocket full of joints and titt mags for any varsity players who wanna meet me in back of the gym at 4:30. God bless.)
I'm the crazed aunt again. I've changed my highlights and have a new boyfriend and I'm going on the news because it's been three months AND WE CANNOT FORGET!!
I am the teddybear sitting at the site of the crash holding a little piece of paper that says: WHY?
I'm the genius outsider kid who is hauled into the VP's office after I'm overheard saying soliciting donations to the "scholarship fund" during morning announcements is coercive and classist bullshit since nobody cared when the poor gay Hispanic kid was bullied til he hung himself.
My parents will be called and told that I will need to undergo psychological evaluation for my "shocking lack of empathy" and "potential psychopathy".
I'm the memorial "car warsh" sponsored by the Jaycees and Bob's Tire in Caitlynn's memory. All proceeds will go to the animal shelter where Bob's wife got her shih-tzu. Eight kids and three of Bob's Tire's employees will be forced to be there. Black and white balloons will be tied to a light pole to drum up business.
I'm the Vice Principal's inspirational speech. I'm cobbled together from numerous google searches and a quick browse of "Chicken Soup for the Soul".
bump to stress how predictable these shootings have become.
I'm the longtime DLer who missed this the first time around. Other than a few stupid posts, this is one of the best threads I've read in ages. It reinforces my belief that most people are as fake and insincere as fuck and why I continue to be such a misanthrope.
I'm Katie Couric retraumitising the children for ratings.....so what did it feel like when your best friend got shot.....tells us about it.
I'm Mike Huckabee, and I thank R134 for giving me my talking points for today's media interviews!
I'm a real person who was out all day grocery and Christmas shopping. I had to attend a concert at my son's high school at 7pm. I play my iPod in the car, I don't listen to the radio. I unpacked the car and drove straight to the school.
Some girl in the school chorus stepped up to the microphone and said in light of today's tragedy, they would like to dedicate the concert to the families of the victims. I'm on Long Island, so I'm thinking, "Oh gawd, are they still trying to milk Sandy for drama?"
Then the band appeared and said they were dedicating their performance in memory of the victims of the tragedy today. And I'm looking around the auditorium all "WTF?"
I had no idea about any school shooting, but the HS kids in my town had to wade into the grief bath.
I went to the movies and when I came out, all the flags were at half mast. I thought GHWB died, but no, just a school shooting.
I'm Mario Lanza, and I am no relation.
I am net the work news anchors, all pronouncing Lahnza as Laanza.
Stop bumping, you fucking asshole at R151.
r157!!!!! love ya!!! Remember Miss Ruebner!!
I'm the hate-filled freeper whose first thought upon hearing that 20 elementary school kids were killed isn't about the kids themselves or their families, but rather "I bet libtards will try to use this as an excuse to take away my guns!"
I'm the local 10 o'clock news in a city thousands of miles from the incident, with LIVE TEAM REPORTING from a (completely empty) local school and an interview with a "child violence expert" on "what *you* can do to keep your child safe at school," followed by random interviews with area parents about how this news affects them. After a five-second pause following the report, we segue to a very-gay weather anchor excited about the 30% possibility of snow in the weekend forecast.
I'm the first mother on my friends' Facebook list to post "can not wait to get home and hug my children," causing all of the other parents on the list to rush to post equally inane sentiments.
I'm the idiot who thought we should all wear the school's colors today in remembrance. Unfortunately, I got the colors wrong.
I'm the phrase "You don't understand because you don't have kids", uttered by a teen mom with a heroin addiction and no job.
Wow. I thought there would be more criticism of this thread.
Why the hell do I come to Datalounge?
I'm a news microphone shoved in the face of a bewildered and frightened five year old. I'm hoping he blubbers and cries when the reporter asks him "When did you hear the guns?"
I'm tweeting my prayers.
R166 because you sold me your soul in return for professional success!