So begins the development of the category “School ‘07″ and the chronicles of West Mesa, ‘07 edition. This is the prelude, which includes no pictures because pictures for the prelude suck.

The 11th. The day of registration — for late people. And so I was one of the unfortunate few who did not get a ride to the actual registration of seniors (12th graders for you foreign folks out there) on Monday and were doomed to come on Friday, in the early bowels of the morning.

I arrived with my sister, my ride. Only 3 papers were needed to be brought, everything else was given at the front desk, and since this was late registration, the front desk was right at the entrance of the school. Late registration was made to be speedy, and indeed it was — save it for the long line of brand new students from across the places who were interested in this mediocre school they call “West Mesa.”

It was 9:15 when we walked in the door to grab some paperwork. The best part was that the paperwork was already filled out for us — in nice, sexy, dark 12pt Times New Roman font text as retrieved from my registration of the very same school two years ago. I rejoiced, celebrating the fact that the school does well to remember records instead of requesting them every year. We only edited/updated one thing, and that was the emergency number. Now we don’t want to be calling a no-longer-in-service emergency number in case I get fscked up in a freak accident now, do we?

At table number two, behind the first table, we turned in the paperwork, and there I saw my nemesis: the old hag known as Miss Vulks. Retarded was she (or rather, is still to this day), and old. In my humble opinion, she needs to retire, better yet, die. Her unreasoanble, fascist, dictator-like ways oppressed many helpless students during those tragic days of substituted school and classes, yet no one was able to stand up to her without having to face the unfair and trigger-happy authorities. So I passed her, gave my paperwork with a smile, with in reality, a killer intent in my mind. I passed anyway.

Next was the photo room! In a turn of events, the student council had decided that this year’s ID are to be taken… PORTRAIT STYLE! The super durable landscape-style IDs were no more, and thus a new trend has risen: VERTICALLY ALIGNED IDs! (Hey I look good in this picture, my hair looks long, messy, and much like a mop).

Having finished that line, I got in line for the counselors for the obligatory class/schedule change-because-the-administrators-messed-up-in-scheduling line… thingy. As well, I saw the krew there too (which, from now on, I shall refer to as… THE CAKE CREW. We all wanted class/teacher/schedule changes, and oh the wait time took the best of us — 4 hours worth of unprogressed wait to be exact. We discussed, in line, whether we should leave and go eat for the rest of the day, or stay here and bear.

Wtih much casual talking on what our decision is to be, the security officer who was watching the line got fed up with our talking, making up a lame excuse that we were “disrupting/slowing down the line and that we’re just here to screw around.” If awards of lameness were to be passed out to all excuses made in the world, this one would win it. Relying on his old-man (he was like in his sixties) retarded instincts, he kicked us out of the line — that we waited well over 3 hours for, by then. Much to our dismay, we decided to leave. While taking our leave, the old fart decided to keep his momentum going and take it further by summoning the head cops at the time. There he even made an even more bullcrap excuse, claiming that we were “complaining and causing havoc in the counselor area.” I almost bursted laughing, but I knew that wasn’t appropriate at the time.

Pretending to be cool and all that, the officer said “kick these guys off the campus, we don’t need them here!” The head cop, having actually FELL for the old cop’s face full of lies, kicked us off the campus. Before we knew it, we were in the parking lot.

It seemed like we were defeated, and that the true bad guys have won once more, in a series of lies, dirty tricks, and oppressive actions. Oh the temper. Fortunately, I asked the head cop for that old guy’s name. “Chris is his name,” answered he. At least that head cop still had some sense in him.

Chris, dearest cop of mine who had the 2-inch balls to kick us out with non-existent reasons, I will have to speak to your superiors to take care of you, because frankly you yourself are unreasonable, and it really does make you look very bad as a cop to force me to talk to your superior, or boss to resolve with your poor work attitude. This’ll get you fired for sure, so in the meantime, save up your money, because this job will be your last. I’ll see you in the courtroom next week.

After planning my evil — I mean revolutionary — plot for removing cleansing the school of one more oppressive dictator ‘tard from the school, we all went to Pizza Hut and rejoiced in eating.