Judging Covers

Hip Stop

Picture by ANDREA_IS_HERE

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I've done a lot of crazy stuff in my days.

Like that time when I fed lipstick to my dog and he drooled pink for a week. Or that time when I tried to teach my goldfish how to fly by throwing it from the top of the stairs, I forgot the wings. Or when I got my head stuck in one of those deluxe sized cookie jars. Or that time when I kissed an actual frog because I wanted a prince and then he jumped on my head and I screamed for three hours straight.

Yah . . . My mom has since learned to keep me clear of two things.

One. Animals or small creatures of any kind. Hence no pets until I turned fifteen, and even then . . .

Two. No fairy tales or science shows for me. I saw fish fly on one. Poor Goldie . .. . never stood a chance.

But she did discover that I am hyper and hyper, it seems, matches pretty well with movement. So she shoved me into the first dance class she could afford. Turns out I sucked at ballet and waltz, but then I found hip hop.

And I slay at that.

Have since fifth grade.

Mom found that funny and obviously it matched me in entirety.

So hip hop was my calling, is my calling and I plan to go national someday. But until then I have to survive the biggest challenge of any poor below average IQ person's life.

High school.

And not just any high school.

But a private one. One filled with rules and regulations and ranks and uniforms and basically everything against what hip hop and I stand for. Which is freedom of expression and creative arts.

Le sigh.

But Mom knows I suck at school, so she saved a painful amount to get me into this private one, just so that I can have the name on my collage application. It's that big of a deal. It's also a school that hosts the rich and snobby and basically anyone with an IQ above 200. Everyone here's like a fudging genius.

I am not.

I'm a kinesthetic learner.

So are the people around me.

But the ones that fight for the top spot are serious nut crackers. They crazy. Like crazy crazy. They don't have fun, or smile, or live basically and if I didn't hate them and their snobby selves I'd feel bad for them.

But the top five have to be the worst. It's like they're the aristocrats of this school. They're royalty in this joints hierarchy, the top honchos, The cream of the crop. The expensive purses and colognes of the mall.

Basically everyone either respects, fears, worships, and wishes they were them.

Unfortunately, I was blessed with the ability to not give a fudge. So I'm trouble. To them, I'm the dirty sock nobody wants. The short straw, the leftover lunch, the. . . . You get the idea.

I suck. They're kings and queens.

But don't worry, I have friends.

They just happen to be the weird, dyed, pierced, blatantly inappropriate leftovers of this school. We get Along great.

We hip hop together and that's all that really matters.

We hop our hip until we drive everyone crazy.