I Hate Memoirs

Teenagers can be so sarcastic. Believe me, I would know.

 I find that one who is forced fails miserably. So why in God’s name my English teacher is forcing me to write a memoir is beyond me.

“Something heart wrenching. I want tears to fall from my eyes. I want it to, above all, be real.” Mr. Meyer said as he explained the assignment. Of course I can’t mention that I am just a normal ninth grader who has never known any real sadness, breakups, or any form of starvation. I’m just simple Dianna Leon. You see Mr. Meyer isn’t a fierce person. He wears crooked glasses and is very bald. He does have a tupé, of course, but he always wears it backwards. Like I said, not really intimidating. However, he had the power to turn my grade from passing, to failing. He’ll do it too.

Rumor has it that his capricious moods came from his childhood. His mother to be precise. I suppose that would be a good memoir, but this is my memoir. I won’t disappoint you Mr. Meyer, I assure you. So, it began the morning you gave me the assignment. I slept and dreamt of a new bicycle unknowing of the horror soon to come. My mother woke me up.

No, that’s not the horror, although it was horrible. I rolled out and hit my head on the nightstand. It gave me permanent brain damage. Just kidding, but I did hit my head, and it did hurt. After recovering, getting dressed, and easting soggy cereal, I took the bus to school. After waiting a few minutes in the freezing cold, the vehicle finally crawled to the stop. I climbed into the old thing and automatically sat in my usual place. The ride was quite unpleasant to say the least. Riding a camel would’ve been preferred over riding that old rickety bus.

I don’t see how it is that the school complains about being poor, and yet, whenever the school gets grants or any other kind of money, it always goes to sports and not these horrible buses. Nevertheless, we managed to survive the trip and make it to Rosaland High. Hell. An eternity to suffering within eight hours. The bell tolled for me, and so my feet reluctantly carried me to my first class. You can guess this is where I will bring you to tears, where you will feel your heat twist as I describe the revolting event. Mr. Meyer’s English 1 class. The class I dubbed Hell’s Hell. I took my seat in the back, able to feel the cold plastic through my jeans. We waited in the room for the death sentence. A mist of impenetrable doom and misery flooded the area, and the flicker of an old light look like lightning. The bell tolled once more. Meyer locked the door, and sealed out only escape. Then he turned toward the class and gave a giant, threatening smile.

“Class,” He said in a moldy chocolate voice, “today we are going to write a memoir.” And he laughed like in one of those movies where the villain laughs because he finally beat the hero. In conclusion, the worse thing to ever happen to me is this assignment. You know why? Because I hate memoirs!

Reviews

[Sunflower 20]

i really enjoyed this. your sense of humour is great, and you have a way of captivating your audience even if the story is about something so mundane as school. really well written! :)

[Elizabeth Thief]

This is awesome. I hate writing memoirs!! And I like Mr. Meyer laughing like an evil villain from movies. All and all, I bet you got an A, easy.
Nice job!!

[Samuel Dickens]

I like your sense of humor. Seriously, though, you should count yourself lucky that you don't have any sad memories to report. I have a whole book full of them. Wanna trade?