Here's your Shitty Essay

Chapter 1: The End of Summer

Max:
It was still hot outside and I could almost feel the summer wind whispering for me to come outside. Whispering to leave the bricks and the bullshit and disappear into the night. Nobody would miss me. My mother only seems to get pleasure from criticizing my every move. My father waits for everyone to fall asleep so he can watch porn on the kitchen computer.  My parents put the computer in the kitchen so they could keep an eye on what I was doing online. They never seemed to get that my phone was the real portal. At night I can hear the muffled grunts of some twenty year old blond. Maybe my father believes those grunts are truly an expression of ecstasy, but I know otherwise. They are cold and hollow and fake. Just like all the bullshit in this world. That girl doesn't care about the guy she's with, or about the sad lonely old man sitting in his dark kitchen in front of a lit screen. It's an imaginary world and everyone is playing an imaginary part. We all know that we are fake, but we pretend anyway. 

But then Ms. Cob walked in. She was wearing white tennis shoes and a weird scarf. Her white hair was stained yellow and looked like dead grass. She smiled at us and said that in the end, we would get along just fine. I drew circles on the desk and pretended they were nooses. She told us what supplies we needed. She handed us a syllabus. The title read "Senior English Writing Seminar."  Ms. Cob walked around the room stiffly. Her clothes too tight. Her body too large. She told us to write about our summer. Most of the students grumbled. I didn't. None of it mattered so why complain.

I wrote: there are three things I did this summer. I always start my essays that way. It seemed to work for most of my classes. I start with "there are three things" and then I write as much bullshit as I can possible think off. Teachers love bullshit. It seems to bring them joy.
But there are never three things. Sometimes I fear that there isn't even one thing. I fear that all I do is live a life in someone else's story. I didn't want to write the truth. The highlight of my summer was when we took my friends car and drove into the woods. We parked and laid out some blankets, ate mushrooms and talked about the moon. When the sunset, I thought that the last threads of light that came through the trees were alive. I thought it was an alien animal that dripped through those branches.

Instead of writing about those things, I made up a story. I said,
There are three things I did this summer. First, I read a book about sailing around the world with a cat. It was a true life adventure about a man who wanted to get away from everything, so he bought a sailboat and set off. Someplace along the line, he found a cat.
I went on for a while about the stupid cat. I really didn't give a shit about the cat and I didn't read a book. If I did, though, read such a book, I'm sure that at some point, for no reason, in the middle of a dead sea, with no waves, the cat would have vanished into the ocean. It would have drown for absolutely no purpose. Just because, sometimes, cats die and we suffer through our journeys alone.

Pierce:
Damn, another boring summer man. I actually wanted to come back to school. You know; I just wish I had more friends.
I mean, yea, I did go to Harvard and yea, I did have a lot of fun but... It was only one week. But damn, I made so many friends from all over the world. In that small bit of time I made more friends than I did my whole junior year man. Now, here I am, back in boring Colorado. Even though I did miss school, I know it's going to be the same as it's always been.
I got some extra sleep on the bus, so I think I'll have enough energy to make it through the day. Although, I'm always pumped for the first day, so it isn't anything new really.
Well, I enter the class, and I see some familiar faces. I'm not really that social, but hey... I want to try something new, so I decide to sit next to someone I don't know. I put my backpack down and take out my English supplies. I look up front and am pretty confused; I mean, what is this teacher wearing? Some weird scarf, and those tennis shoes?
I start to snicker a little bit as some kid in the back slips in a "what are thoooose". They were seriously styled as those type of tennis shoes that you would see a nurse wear: white and definitely off-brand. I immediately rethink wanting to come back. I mean, I hope this class isn't as difficult as this lady makes it seem. She hasn't said anything, but her stern expression and how she scanned the classroom convinced me. I could tell that she must've had a bad childhood. She's like a 40 year old trying to look 16. 
Anyway, I made it into this class because of my writing. That's the reason I got that trip to Harvard.
I felt so proud then. I was in the top 3 nominees in the school to go. And I had made it. I felt better than everyone for a moment.
But when I finally arrived, I had never felt so small. I was definitely not the smartest that there was, but I learned a lot and made many friends.
I sigh as I thought about how much fun I had.... And how short it lasted.
"Class, QUIET DOWN!!!!" the teacher yells. I am pretty appalled because there were only like  2 people talking.
"Sit down."
Everyone is already in their seats.
"Take your supplies out and finish the assignment on the board." she continues.
Everyone has their supplies but the board is blank.
I look to the kid next to me and start to ask what she was talking about, but when I glance at his paper I see he's drawing nooses. My initial thought was, is this kid suicidal, like one of them emo kids? But you know, I'm a really empathetic person, so I figured, whatever the reason may be, it isn't my business.  Instead, I just raised my hand.
"Yes, Piece?" she completely skewered my name.
"It's Peirce ma'am," I reply.
"Okay whatever, Piercy," she said.
I get the feeling that I was going to hate her, yet I ask my question anyway.
"So, where is the assignment that you wanted us to do?" I try to be as polite as possible.
"Were you not paying atten..." She turns to look at the board and realizes she didn't write anything.
The class started to laugh a bit.
"Oh, so you think you're funny, Piece?" she says with an attitude.
Oh my lord. At this point I know she's trying to get on my nerves. I just stay there, staring at my unopened book, thinking and imagining being back at Harvard, because now, I had just reminded myself that I'm back in my dreadful reality.
       Shortly after the whole unnecessary incident, we had finally started to get into the whole prompt that we came to class for in the first place. Things became so much easier when the class doesn't have to get into the whole "let's all go around sharing our names so the teacher can purposely mess it up" type thing. So our first assignment was what we did over the summer. I hate writing about what I did over the summer. First of all, what the hell is the significance of writing about our summer? This teacher has already shown me she doesn't care. She obviously doesn't look like she even likes to teach, but anyway... I decided since she probably won't even read it, that I wouldn't care myself. SOO, I decided to write about something that shows I don't care either. I got to thinking, and since I have major interest in war and whatnot, I started writing a little story that would make this assignment a bit more enjoyable. Yeah, that's it, my summer in the Front Lines....
Summer had finally arrived, I thought it would be a pleasant time when I could finally relax and enjoy the view of the ocean. It had such a beautiful color and everything seemed to have settled down and had become calm. The current was smooth, the breeze felt good against my face and I for once thought I can have one day that I can enjoy the company of all my comrades. There had been a ceasefire between the two sides... or at least I thought. Today, we were tasked to reach the island of Iwo Jima. So far there hasn't been any air warnings, no sonar warnings, nothing. I was apart of the 900 African Americans that were privileged to fight in the war. Everything was quiet and calm but it was too quiet. An hour or so went by when I finally had time to relax from the all the maintenance I had to do around the ship. I heard a noise, a noise that had a soft purring sound, noise that seemed so far away yet was so close. It grew louder and louder. Was it them? I get up and search the sky. Then came the air warning, no not a warning, they were here, and this peacefulness had just became another false sense of security...
           I started to get into all sorts of action and chaos as I kept writing on. I zoned out everything and everyone around me. I only focused on this babass story that I really wanted to finish. It was almost like I was there. I thought my so called "summer" story was so good that I just didn't know where to finish. And so when the time was up, I sort of ended it with a really  thought out "to be continued" sentence, followed by a dot, dot, dot. I usually want to make full books out small assignments like these, but I only stay motivated for so long before I get distracted by something else. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one writing bullshit just because my summer wasn't as eventful as I wanted it to be. The whole Harvard thing was only a week so the rest of my summer was pretty boring after that.Sometimes I just wish my life was a dream and that I would wake up in a new reality... one that will be so interesting and eventful, that I wouldn't have to write fictional crap on paper just to give my current life more meaning.