Let’s be high school

I'm the married female teacher banging my student.

I'm girls pouring through bridal magazines in study hall, planning their weddings with honeymoons in the Poconos. These were the girls who were going to finally get out from under their families, not the ones who got engaged at prom because they'd been knocked-up. Either way, they usually had a couple divorces by the time you ran into them at a reunion or a big community event.

I'm the gossiping about favorite soaps. The excuse for watching these shows, even when they had outlandish plots like alien abduction was "thing like this happen in real life".

I'm the gossip about handsome boys who made for awkward dates--is you friend Jeff gay? the more forward girls would ask.

The homely girls who "put out" for anyone and the otoo ashamed to say they had taken a test drive.

Are we a high school in the 80s?

Sure - why not

I’m the buckets of sand in the smoking area (“butt hut”, “cancer ranch”, “The Pit” - what was it called at your school?). Most cigarette butts don’t make it into me.

I’m the uppermost echelon of cool, popular kids. Everyone knows who we are and they watch everything we do with admiration and envy. When we go to colliege, we will have to recreate this mystique all over again. For some it comes naturally and it’s not a big deal. Others never regain it, boohoo.

It depended on your class--my year the elite was mostly people that everyone else knew were jerks. They were the ones whose prospects were never very good. The class ahead of us had more of mean girls, arrogant jocks kind of elite.

I'm Cherie, the School's Whore (circa 1976). I was on a field trip to Castle Rock and fucked some random guy who happened to be in the woods that day but told everybody I was r-r-r-RAPED!

R1=Mr. Robertson and Mollie T circa 1978.

I’m the bathroom graffiti

Im a variety of automatic and semi-automatic assault weapons.

I’m your sister, the object of said graffiti

I am the hot female teacher who openly flirts with her male students for years. Nobody cares until my mugshot appears in the local paper after my arrest for statutory rape.

I'm the 30 minute lunch period in which 10-15 minutes of consists of standing in the lunch line, so you have to rush to eat the shitty quality "food."

I'm the question of "Can I use the bathroom?" which will be answered one of 3 ways ("I don't know. CAN you?," "No. You should've used it before you got here," or "Sure. Just take the hall pass.") depending on how nice your teacher is.

I'm one of the straight jocks drenched in Cool Water or Eternity

I'm the student who can't decide what to major in. I can't even decide what to wear to the dance tonight and now I'm under pressure to choose what I want to do with the rest of my life just like that?

I’m the door to the Teacher Lounge, behind which a student shall never venture, lest they witness the debauchery beyond.

I'm the smell of the Boys Locker Room.

I'm the bloody Kotex that Salome Smith leaves four days in a row on a bathroom sink in the third-floor girls room every month (timing permitting) because she hates herself but hates her bullying classmates more.

Until Angela Phillips hid in a stall with her feet up on the door so she could catch the "Red Menace of St. Hedwig's High," which she did, raising a hue and cry that left Salome being carried out on a gurney in a dead faint. She never returned. Her lunch stayed in her locker until it stated to stink and attract bugs two weeks later. Meatloaf sandwiches.

I'm the bully who physically and verbally abuses kids I perceive as weaker than me. I was raised in an abusive environment at home so it's the only way I've ever known.

I'm Coach Handler.

The name says it all, but he gets wins and the jocks like him (aka are afraid of him).

Coach is more into humiliation than actual sex. But the morning after graduation night almost always finds at least two graduates with some pain and complicated mental attempts not to process their experiences of the night before.

I'm the school slut whose grades are slipping. I may have to see if there's something I can do for the teacher to see if I can get some extra credit.

I’m the drivers ed teacher. I’m a former Marine who served in Korea, and I put royal crown in my hair and stink the drivers ed car up with its scent as well as a faint fecal odor.

We're the Blivet Sisters (circa 1976). We're both really super fat and nobody likes us. We don't know we're called the Blivet Sisters because nobody ever spoke to us. We also don't know the meaning of the word blivet.

I'm the sex in the nurse's office, because Lily (Sophomore, Class of 1983) cleans after school to help pay for tuition, and she always leaves the window in the nurse's office unlocked on Friday afternoon so she and Rudy can sneak in after dark to fuck on the girls' fainting couch.

But the day came when the School Nurse, Sister "Eagle Eyes" Mary Margaret, found crab lice crawling on a towel on the couch, and the window was bolted and checked.

It turns out Rudy was also seeing Debbie the Skank. Letters were sent home with all students so parents knew how to handle "the epidemic."

R16 I'm the 45 gym class that consists of 20 minutes of changing into then out of gym clothes, another 15 of picking teams and getting organized, and the constant bullying of the non-athletic kids that goes on throughout. I consist of perhaps 15 minutes of actual physical exercise, and DLers complain that "kids are so obese!"

I'm the raging boner in social studies.

I'm the parent who calls bitching at the teacher because my kid is failing the class. My kid is a good student! The teacher must be doing something wrong or just has it out for them for whatever reason. Little do I know my kid is much more concerned about getting stoned in the school parking than about studying.

I’m Valentines Day, when cheap carnations are delivered to popular people during homeroom with cute little anonymous notes attached. All day long the pretty girls will walk from class to class clutching their flowers so everyone can see how many they got.

We're the Blivet Sisters, R32.

We didn't get any.

I'm geometry, a useless mandatory course for 95% of high schoolers. You take me instead of practical classes like how to write a resume, the true costs of debt, etc.

I am 1990's Cherie, I am the school mean girl, I harass the other less fortunate girls with the art of mime! I went up to a girl and acted out picking lice out of her hair and trapped in a box.

I'm the girl dreaming of my married name and practicing my new signature over and over again in my notebook, when I should be taking notes.

"Mrs. Richard Nixon"

"Mrs. Richard Nixon"

"Mrs. Richard Nixon"

I'm OP getting her head smashed in with razor studded boots by all the "cool kids".

I’m the obvious lie about sleeping with an older married man.

I'm the pudgy but likeable techie nerd boy who gently rubbed a school jock's growing bulge backstage.

I am the gym in either early September or around Memorial Day. The AC is not on this time of year. It is raining and 90 degrees so I am full of sweaty 15 year olds. The air is so thick you can cut it with a straw.

I’m trigonometry. I’m worse than geometry.

I'm the perky, on-my-way-to-bigger-things, popular but not "elite popular" girl who is pretty sexually active, but due to people liking me, my good choices as to who and when, and even a few well-timed threats about revealing small cock size and/or poor performance, I have avoided a "Slut" designation.

I'm the overweight, middle aged teacher who's jealous of the young, skinny, pretty popular girls. I LOVE when they wear clothes that show off their tits, legs, and/or ass so I can send them to the principal's office for dress code violations.

“I'm OP getting her head smashed in with razor studded boots by all the "cool kids".”

Incorrect. OP had a smart mouth and was quick with a verbal takedown of cool kids, uncool kids, teachers, etc.

I'm pot. Copious amounts of me are smoked by high school kids I'm the 70s.

I’m the overly enthusiastic honors English teacher.

I'm the cigarette that's been passed around the 2 floor science wing bathroom. I'm lipped and steamed.....

I'm the lazy ass teacher who gives you 100% just for showing up because frankly, spending hours grading papers doesn't sound like my idea of a good time.

I'm the curiously "cool" teacher - at least by high school standards. I can communicate effectively with my students and don't judge them; I listen to cool music and don't dress as dully as the other teachers. Maybe I have a cool car and seem like I have a different sort of life than most of the other teachers. What's my deal - just young and single and not cynical about teaching yet? Am I gay? Am I a trust fund kid so there's no stress in teaching because I can always quit? Is it all appearance and my life isn't that interesting? Something else?

I’m the attendance secretary. THUMP… clack, THUMP… clack, THUMP… clack.… all day long on my desk goes the date and time stamping machine… THUMP… clack, THUMP… clack, THUMP… clack. I hear it in my sleep.

I'm Big Red (circa 1976). I'm the school's drug dealer, I'm female, about 5 foot 10 and weigh about 250 and have long red stringy hair. I smoke and smoking's not allowed on campus so the smoking section's in the irrigation ditch across the street. Anybody who wants to score some pot (that's really all there was) heads over to the ditch to "smoke" when I'm there. I'm always there because I never went to classes. I disappeared after graduation and nobody gave a shit.

I'm the Physics teacher. I'm picked as one of the ten teacher finalists for [italic]that[/italic] Challenger mission. Instead, they picked that bitch Crista. Even though nothing at all happened to me other than one or two media interviews afterward the school gives me an entire honorarium page in that year's yearbook.

i'm the locked drawer of confiscated items. what's inside me? a rubiks's cube, a hacky sac, a half pack of grape bubbalicious, a mad magazine, a sony walkman, a box of watermelon nerds, and a paperback copy of princess daisy doggyeared at the "ram" rape passage.

I'm scratch 'n sniff teachers. Even seniors will cut a bitch to get one of me.

I'm the girls restroom. I am versatile and am used as a lounge, for eating pizza, for changing clothes, and for crying.

I'm your high school annual. In the days after graduation you'll spend hours with me, looking at the pictures and reading and re-reading your classmates' inscriptions.

Then I'll go up on a top shelf, never to be opened again, till finally I'm lost during a move. You do think of me one day, though. "Whatever happened to my high school annual?"

^ or you take it down and look through it once every 20 years, thinking "Wow, where did the time go?" and "Wonder where that ho is now?" or "I guess the captain of the swim team did get married after all, he was a prime piece of dick back in the day."

I'm the free tampons in the boys bathrooms (we're in Oregon!)

Is this 1920? It's called a yearbook, not an annual. And in the years after graduation, you take it off the shelf and gossip about what you know about people with one of your friends. You do this before any reunion you attend, as well. There's always a cheerleader and/or football player who quickly became as big as a house.

The people who won some sort of "senior superlative" ("Most likely to succeed", "Best hair", etc.) have usually become major underperformers and/or died early.

I am the boys calling out "Beaver!" when a girl's uniform (Catholic school, of course) blows up in the wind for a moment

Sr. Mary Catherine sends a note home to the girl's mother suggesting she weight the hems.

I'm the clock and window that is stated at throughout the day with the broken hopes of what high school never was.

A few people who are really nice keep the jumpers at bay.

I’m the Catholic school girls, stopping at the Waffle House bathroom on the way to school and hiking their skirts up 6”.

I am the girls who think they're non-binary.

I'm the Science teacher who pits my students against each other for kicks.

I'm the goofy art teacher who somehow let's you know she smokes pot after achool.

I'm a substitute teacher on a power trip.

I'm the punk rock girl who pretends to be too cool for it all, but it's only a way to deal with the popular kids' rejection of me. I can act like I was too avant-garde for the mainstream lemmings to understand anyway. But deep down it still hurts.

I’m the removed doors to the toilet stalls in the boys bathrooms, presumably stacked up somewhere in case I’m ever needed again.

I am the degrading abuse heaped on and in the toilets in the boys bathroom.

I'm being stoned out of your mind because of the weed you smoked before school, and trying to pretend you're not stoned throughout the school day. You're really not fooling anyone.

[quote]I'm the gossiping about favorite soaps.

Teenagers haven't watched soaps for about three generations now.

HORSESHIT

I am the poor attempts at comedy for TikTok

I’m pizza squares.

I’m the study carrel in the library where the lonesome gay kid eats his lunch.

I’m mono.

I’m faking mono

I'm...the yearbook.

I am Alyssa F...I called in the first bomb scare circa 1972 to our Long Island high school

I am the deeply closeted English teacher, posing as a no-nonsense tough guy and having a second job as a part-time cop to continue the charade.

I'm the class slut taking on the entire football team at the 50-yard line one Saturday night.

I'm the kids you could tell were smokers because they always looked tired, unhealthy and wore their coats to class.

For some reason most of them dropped out at 16.

I’m the truancy officer dispatched by the attendance secretary by order of the dean to hunt your delinquent ass down.

I'm cooties.

I'm hickeys.

It's 1972, and I'm a high school without security guards or metal detectors still holding night football and basketball games.

I'm getting to see the biggest hunk of the school naked every day for a year and taking a shower with him, often just the two of us. It was heaven.

I am the weird goth girl, who soon became friends with the gay boy after I punched a girl in the nose who called him a faggot.

And how are you going to arrange that, R86?

I'm the coach in 70s shorts sitting legs spread you can see one of his nut slipped out.

I’m the teenage pregnancy that must be dealt with immediately. Here are my options:

1. Dumpster delivery behind the Pizza Hut- which is near the parking lot of Piggy Wiggly where baby was conceived. I almost get caught when I see a fellow classmate doing the same thing- but everyone knows she’s a slut so I’m not surprised.

2. A discrete abortion over a three day weekend or holiday break. Luckily, my grandmother knows a woman who can do it with a wire hanger and some rubbing alcohol. When the bleeding doesn’t stop after day three, I die in the middle of rope climbing in PE class.

3. I have the baby and give it up for adoption in another state while collecting a nice “processing fee” in the process. I realize that I can make 10,000 every nine months just by letting my dad use me as a cum dump when mom ain’t home.

4. Drop that baby in the toilet of a Cracker Barrel toilet and run like hell- but not before getting a pie of apple pie and a troll doll to go.

I'm your permanent record card. I was shredded and tossed in the dumpster five years after you graduated.

I'm the slightly scruffy muscular jock who will beat you up if I catch you staring at the thick length in the crotch of my jeans - though the attention makes me hard.

I'm the guys' locker room in the 90's. No one uses the shower because no one wants to be seen naked.

I’m the school play. This year it’s ‘A Raisin in the Sun’.

I’m the school play. Every year it’s ‘A Raisin in the Sun’.

I am the bravado that thinly veils insecurity. I provide the entertainment.

I'm the high school experience that's supposed to prepare you for life, where every office has a tardy bell.

I'm the gorgeous popular quarterback valedictorian who will find myself a small plain fish in college and turn to drugs.