Blog-nog

Sotd: one man can change the world – big sean. 

I’m not sure when it was but Christmas really lost its christmassy feeling. Maybe it was when I found out Santa wasn’t real or perhaps when Scotland decided it didn’t need anymore snow or when I got teased one Christmas and my friend sent an “I love you” to some girl I didn’t like and I had a good cry (went way too deep there but whatever I’ll flame my 9 year old self for likes).

Anyway my friend decided to write a story about me today because English was awfully tedious and its relatable. 

He walked home. The streets were dark, and the light shining out from the lampposts did a poor job of illuminating the empty, desolate pavement.

His palms were sweating. He could feel his stomach turning, butterflies going crazy flying inside of him. He was scared; nervous. He had never been in a situation like this before. It was all new, and he didn’t like it. 

This wasn’t him. He didn’t get into this kind of mess. He was a good kid. He played piano, violin. He got straight As. No, he got straight full marks! This wasn’t him.

He was there. The long, disturbing, walk home was over. There he was. Standing on the porch of his small Liberton semi-detached. Behind the purple door, his parents stood. Anxiously waiting. He lifted his keys towards the keyhole, his hand shaking. He struggled to unlock the door, dropping his keys various times. 

He finally managed to fit the keys into the door, and he slowly opened the door.

It had been the longest day. It had happened at 9am, and he hadn’t recovered since. Maths hadn’t been as stimulating as normal, and he didn’t even win his match at chess club. His two hour long piano lesson had gone on forever. His music hadn’t captivated him, sweeping him away as normal. The atrocity of this morning had perturbed him too deeply. Even his blog wasn’t as good as normal: he just wasn’t inspired. He no longer saw the point.

But this, this was going to be the worst part of the day. This was the epicentre of this earthquake of a day. But he could no longer delay this.

He pushed the door open. The overwhelming smell of rice hit his face, and he wondered through to the kitchen where his mum was cooking. His dad sat at the kitchen table twiddling with a TI-84 plus. 

“Mum, dad…” he started. “I’m so sorry. I.. I got a 16 in English.”
THE END

Just to give a little background, the author is an immigrant for whom English is her 263th language and still managed to get a “16+” on her essay. They’re out of 20 but the teacher decided not to give her any extra marks just a little maths sign to show a little superiority and yeah I was a little mad. So there’s my excuse to not blog today. 

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