Alright GCSE term?

Oh well hello run up to GCSEs...GO THE EFF AWAY. Do I really need good GCSE results to become a writer? Surely THESE can be my results? People recommending me and asking me to work for them can be my results? I don't need letters on a piece of paper for proof that I am capable of working, especially for what I want to do in life. I don't need a list of subjects I hate to have a letter next to them, and that letter expressing how good I am in that subject. No. That letter will signify if I LIKE that subject. Not how good I am in it. I know that I am smart and other people know I'm smart, so why bother with all the stress and work just for some letters? "These results will affect your WHOLE LIFE and employers will look at these results and that A* instead of an A could determine whether you get a job!" ....No it won't! Maybe it will show what I like/dislike and what I probably excel in, but to be honest the way I present myself at an interview, my experience and personality will determine more if I get a desired job? Am I right?

RANT OVER. Today was 'back to school' day. *sob* Getting up at 7am hurt me inside. Plus it was chucking it down outside, cheers for that mother nature. Mum said she'd give us a lift though, win. *minutes tick by* "MUM we need to go!" "Okay Matt have you got everything?" "....I haven't done my PE kit!" I'd like to point out that is was 8.10am and school starts at 8.25am. Finally we left but MUm decided to stop off at the co-op to get some bean sprouts (?) so by the time we got near the school, the traffic was crazy (8.20am) NICE ONE. What a marvellous day this was going to be. I evidently got into form late, oh well, dripping wet as we ended up jumping out of the car on the main road and running the rest of the way. God I looked hot.

Physics. My teacher didn't do himself any favours by turning up on the first day back to a gaggle of rowdy year 11s with a plaster slapped across his clearly swollen nose. Nadia and Ronan are in my science classes, therefore I had to turn round and silently laugh hysterically at them about this incident. Oh we're so mean, but I HATE the man therefore I don't care. The rumours flew round the class in seconds. "He probably just fell over a shoe." "No, he fell down the stairs." the majority thought. "His chinese mum hit him with her handbag" Was my personal favourite.

He is incredibly strange is he. We were meant to be doing a presentation on stars on the laptops today, so we went on Google maps and looked up the Eastenders set instead. He came over a bit later, looked down at Nadia's lap and went "I don't think you've got the right equipment." That was it for me. I quick delved under the table because I 'dropped my pen' and came up for air when he left, face streaming with tears for laughing so much. "'You've not got the right equipment'? Well I don't have a penis sir, I'm pretty sure I have a very womanly vagina." I LOVE NADIA.

The jokes kept rolling on in Biology. We somehow got onto the topic of when you're 'on', what if when your egg comes out, it was an actual sized egg...Yes, we are 16 year olds in year 11, oh so mature. Other people think of these things though...don't they...no?...right then. Then Ronan goes "Okay so would you rather be 'on' and have normal bits of pain for a week, or, have an actual egg come out your vajayjay and be in excrutiating pain for 20mins?" "20MINS?! IT TAKES 20MINS?!" Nadia seemed in real shock at this. "I don't bloody know I haven't asked a chicken how long it takes them to squeeze an egg out, I'm guesstimating!" Oh God that might not seem hilarious but at the time we were in FITS and nearly on the 'being sent out' list. Rebels.

The womanly parts conversation carried out throughout the whole day, diverting into Embaressing Bodies and whatnot. But I am NOT going into what talk we had about that.

Something amazingly wierd happened earlier. We were eating dinner and Dad showed me an article in the paper about 'Birthday Numbers'. Somehow they had come up with some sort of way of calculating 'your' number, but using your birthday. My Dad worked out mine. My number is 4. Now look at what it says but I guide your focus to the last sentence. Oh. Em. Eff. Gee. X