School Stories From Hell High

You know. It's late. I have no caffeine in my system. The school's flooded, so I don't have to return tomorrow. What does that mean? Making a blog post about school!

These stories are in no particular order. Some of them are really short, others are long and elaborate. Most of them aren't.

Fainting in English Class

This was me personally. I don't know what it is, if I'm sitting or laying down for a long period of time, my vision goes black and I get really dizzy. This has been happening since I was, like, 12, and I doubt it's particularly serious. If it is, oh well.
So, earlier on, I don't know, two or three years ago, English was my eighth period class. We were there for about forty-five minutes or so. So the bell that signifies the end of the period rings, and I grab my bag off the floor, and I stand up. After that, I don't remember specifically what happened, my friends filled me in on this later.
I guess I fainted, and apparently, cracked my head off the desk.
Next thing I know, I was in the nurse's office (the nurse happens to be my friend's mom). She just kind of looked at me and shook her head, then waved me on to basketball practice. But according to my friends in that class, my English teacher had carried me from his room, upstairs, down the steps and to the nurse's office.
I heard about that one for a WHILE.

The infamous Coral Reef Gang

This was recent. Over the summer. At band camp. YES. YOU'RE GOING TO HERE BAND CAMP STORIES. KEEP THEM TO YOURSELVES. I COULD GET SEVERELY PUNISHED FOR THIS. Like any of the band members follow my Blog. But we do have a motto, "What happens at band camp, stays at band camp." But... we'll make an exception. Because I love you all. And I wish you would seduce me. Not really. You're all filthy and disgusting from sitting here jerking off to whatever kinky internet porn you're into.

It just occured to me, to tell you this one, I'll have to tell you someone's name. Don't kill her in her sleep, okay? Well, actually, you can, just wait until after the football season, when we have to march in band.
So, our section leader, whose name is Coral (DON'T MURDER HER. WE LIKE HER. VERY MUCH. IN A DIRTY WAY. JUST LIKE I LIKE TAPPING THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON.) wore these, like, scarf things on her head at band camp. I forget their main function. I guess they were headbands more than anything. But our band director gives us a break and starts talking over his microphone that he has hooked up to speakers, so we can all hear him when we're playing or backfield or something. So everyone's sitting down, put their instruments or flip folders down, some of us throwing grass at each other, and he starts talking. Tells us a story from the olden days when he was in college, and then he says, "So, Coral's been rocking a different do-rag every day of band camp. She's converting her innocent section into a GANG."

I'm not even sure if Coral heard that. She didn't really react. So then he says, "Hmm... what should we call the piccolo gang?"

It took all of three seconds for the clarinet section leader to suggest The Rainbow Gang. Because, you know, us piccolos are full of gay pride. Even though all of us are female and a greater majority have boyfriends. I'm not included in that majority. Unless my pleasuring piccolo counts as a male.
Just kidding. That would be disgusting and probably painful. Plus, I have to blow that thing.

But the band director refused that one. So my friend in the percussion section (Or the section of assholes except for two) suggested The Gang That Would Never Hurt Anybody Ever. But that was, apparently, too long.

So then Coral suggests The Coral Reef Gang. So, since I'm assuming she'll be section leader again next year, we're going to be the self-named Coral Reef Gang for a couple years.

The Port-a-potty Of Dooooooom

Another band camp one. From two years ago.

Band camp is generally five days a week, seven or eight hours. Obviously in the summer before school starts.

It was one of those long afternoons, outside in the heatwave, wondering how our instruments didn't melt. Our director must have taken some form of pity on us and gave us a break. Given the group of upperclassmen that year, bad idea.

One of the low brass players went into the bathroom. And outside at band camp, that means a rickety, suffocating, disgusting port-a-potty.

I already said a lot of the percussion section are assholes (I am so unsure how to phrase that sentence). So, naturally, a senior and a junior also went over to the port-a-potty.

Three guesses what happens next.

Boom. Port-a-potty's tipped over, and not onto the grass or some random patch of land. No. Onto the SOFTBALL batting cage.

So the kid leaps out, and our drum major was like, "You okay? No shit on your pants or anything?" The kid was fine.

The kid who tipped it -the junior- wasn't allowed near it the next year at band camp.

However, my batting instructor didn't understand why I wouldn't go near the back of the batting cage for a couple weeks after that incident.

That's all I can think of at the moment. It's four-thirty in the morning (I think the clock at the bottom is still off. I'm not positive though). I bid you all goodnight.

~KK, who's come to the conclusion that all she likes about Hell High is band, Somewhere, USA.