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|Or they are all super-beings with hyper-intelligent ass-fuck mind rays.|
More likely, however, it's a bunch of ass holes.
Since I moved to Montclair High School, I've experienced many a thing.
But nothing seemed quite as unconquerable as the fact that somehow, mysteriously, .5 points on my GPA had disappeared.
What I figured was it was simply the result of several things; differently weighted credits, different courses, the advent of 'high honors.'
But Ms. L, my guidance counselor, took my GPA and shat on it. Regardless of why, I at least wanted to know how she was doing it.
So after several conversations with my old, South guidance counselor, offered MHS the alternatives of how to calculate my GPA.
Funny thing is, had there been only a .3, or .4 difference, I probably never would have looked further.
But Ms. L insisted her math was correct, that the disappeared credits were terrorists and had been exported to the Gitmo of scholastics.
So I went above her, to the same person who helped me escape another crazy, unreasonable fate earlier, when they wanted me to take two years of AP US instead of one.
This hangs in limbo for several weeks, until today...
I have a blistering head ache. 4th period I go to the nurse, casually stopping by to see the greatest aid to my health and well-being since the move, the guidance department's secretary. I asked her about any developments, and she responded saying she'd re-remind the guy about it.
7th I revisit, once again on my trip to the nurse.
But this time she calls me in. Asks the man-in-charge, Mr. S-
"Oh, yeah, you came out way ahead under our system."
The wonderfully helpful, and hopeful, Mrs. W, continues-
"See, I told you it'd be fix-... wait. What?"
Mr. S- "Yeah, under your old scale you'd have a 2.7"
Now for some background: The newly calculated gpa is a 3.1.
My old school had it at 3.6.
I've never had a final average below a B. Thusly, a 2.7 is simply impossible.
Me- "Pardon? I... I'm sorry, how did that happen?"
Mr S- "Your guidance counselor, I and Ms C worked it all out, I don't know it in my head, but I'm sure she can walk you through."
I leave. Down the stairs. Someone's fucking me and I want to know who.
And I've got a feeling it's a big fat old black woman who's got Lupus.
I ask her to go over everything. I just don't get it, I tell her. I'm sorry we've gone over this before, but there's a discrepancy and it's a large one. I need to know what's doing this.
And we go through every last one of my grades in the last 3 years. My headache will have to wait.
There are 3 columns: Name of course, Credits earned, "Quality Credits."
I don't know what the fuck a quality credit is, but it sounds good, right?
Everything seems in order.
She mentioned she had already gone over this with Mr S, obviously I was wasting her valuable consumption time.
I couldn't believe it. I was about to pull out a calculator to challenge her math skills, when I saw it.
Freshman and Sophmore year.
5 Quality Credits (as much as my fucking Bio class).
But 0 credits earned.
Just a gut feeling.
Turns out "Quality Credits" are really "How bad your GPA gets fucked in the ass credits"
What the more you've got of those, the lower. The more earned, the better.
At my old school, gym was Pass/Fail. Here it's a letter grade.
FOR BOTH OF THOSE YEARS, SHE GAVE ME 0 CREDITS, AKA A FAIL FOR THE CLASSES I HAD FUCKING DONE.
"I'm sorry, why do I have no credits for those two classes? I think that's where the problem is."
"Well," she responded with her premeditated yet nervous answer, "those are pass fail classes. They don't have letter grades."
"But it factors into my GPA."
"Well, I guess my old school didn't count them, but it doesn't mean I should be effectively failed for classes I clearly passed."
"Well it counts here."
Luckily I was ill. Had I realized how pissed off I was about to become, I'd be leaving in handcuffs.
I walk to the nurse.
After 30 seconds I realize just how pissed off I am.
It isn't that this is happening. The sheer deliberateness of this can be blown off because she's an idiot. She's a bitch. Whatever. I can fix it, anyone with eyes can figure this out.
But guess what, motherfucker.
I've got a dying dog, a looney father and mother, a dying (would-be) grandfather, a group of friends I can't see anymore, a social dilemma at every turn, a pair of broken balls and NO FUCKING TIME TO WORRY ABOUT IMBECILES WITH RED FUCKING PENS.
But the real clincher is far deeper in my psyche. It hurts because when you move, you can't take anything with you. Your past is effectively void, so long as it was outside your family.
No one knows you're nice to janitors.
No one knows you've stuck up for the little guy.
No one knows you can speak well.
No one knows that 30 minutes away there are actually still some people who give your voice some weight in their minds.
So to take one of the few things that I do have, the grades on that fucking piece of paper, and to rub them in my face as though I had, literally and figuratively failed, is the lowest, most pathetic, hate-worthy, slimy, cum-sucking, cock-licking, scrotum-eating, fucked up, disgusting, vile, idiotic,
DOG FUCKING, SALT-IN-THE-EYE
SHIT YOU NEVER FUCKING IMAGINED OR THOUGHT OUT.
I have a meeting with the principal tomorrow.