The Effects of Doxycycline

“Now I just want everyone to know that absolutely NO LATE WORK IS ACCEPTED THIS QUARTER. I cannot stress that enough, although I know the majority of you are responsible,” I always admired my English teacher’s sarcastic tone. I admired it for being the simplest defense mechanism from negative judgement, it brought him more profound character, and overall it was just plain funny.

Today, however, differed. The man was performing an entire dramatic monologue for the aim of getting a single rule across. I know there’s no late work accepted, you’ve told us this a million times. First period–sleep deprived, moody, hungered–drove up my tolerance level to the boiling point. The silver bar handle pushed in and out as student upon student of teacher aids entered through the door to deliver paper. The wooden door’s hinges creaked loud then soft as late classmates filled in vacant seats. For an odd reason, my stomach begins to churn and twist. A vein above my left temple begins to drum.

“Hey Nick! How was your break?” a delightful friend asks whilst taking a seat.

“Uh,” my body was telling me to keep my mouth shut, throat tight, and just sit down–but, I don’t want to come off rude, “it was pretty good. Yours?”

I was not paying attention to a single word this kid was saying. His words were as minuscule to my attention as the thumping vein by my temple. All I could think about was my stomach and even now I hold the faintest recollection of his spring break.

“That’s nice,” I lied, “Man, I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh that sucks,” his words were twice as loud today, “because I feel fantastic.”

I moan and sigh in a depressed prosody. My body demands rest and puts my head down on the cold desk.

“Well, I feel great! I got this new soap called Irish Winter and it’s incredible!”

He mocked me. He mocked me without even knowing it. Every phrase he spoke, every word he uttered, every syllable he sent was like a projectile missile…

“So remember kids, NO LATE WORK IS ACCEPTED FROM NOW ON.”

My body demanded relief, a quick fix, something! Glands within my palms begin excreting a cold sweat, my back cringes, arching my body around my stomach cushioning my organ within my seat,  oxygen stubbornly enters into my lungs and my eyes tear up. I knew I needed to evacuate the classroom–quickly–into the restroom, hidden from the harsh behaviors and immature eyes of a high school teenager. What I was about to do could have left a new nickname for me the rest of my high school career. I thank God I am not a freshmen.

Suddenly the agony reaches the peak of its bodily possession and like a marionette enslaved to the strings of natural reflex my body twists to the perfectly organized choreography of illness. The palatine uvula dips to the rhythm of my friend’s spring break sonnet. The stomach implodes to the harmony of Mr. Whorton’s adagio speech. And my sweaty palms slap quickly to my mouth, sealing the lips from projecting the mixture solution to high school embarrassment.

My mouth fills up instantly with a burning liquid and I feel every single taste bud nestled on my tongue flair up to the profound sour flavor. Swiftly the liquid arose from my throat filling up my mouth to capacity–I thought of swallowing the combination whole, but at this point it was impossible. With a loud “urggggg” I exude my Honey Bunches of Oats with milk and turn to my friend in shock.

He looked at me dead in the eye; his Irish Winter story falls silent. I briskly examine the rest of my peers for their reaction and was delivered one of the tiniest and rarest blessings: no one noticed. They were all transfixed by my teacher’s sarcastic monologue about late work, all bide to their own cold interpersonal worlds and–best of all–completely oblivious to the action of me throwing up in the pubic classroom.

I sat there, jarred and ignorant to the next step in my Doxycycline side-effect epic was; my friend gathered his shock and gave me the answer:

“I’d go to the bathroom if I were you.”

The Third Beginning of the Third Year

In a nocturnal state, the consciousness of humans are questionable to be reasonable or not. This entire night is a stringing between Sunday and Monday; when sleep is scarce you perceive everything as one day. I reflect upon the scrutiny that accompanied the past three terms of a high school career. When all others are sound and undisturbed in their slumbers, I am relinquished from responsibility, the rules of honor, faulty respect, and the anonymous doppelganger I erect like a mannequin to society. My mind is no longer bombarded by the ripples caused by distress and problems. I am a still pond. A body of water.

Through a shallower tone, I stay up to enjoy every second left of this annual recess of school and responsibility. I clench to the peak of a cliff trying not to fall back into the jagged rocks at the bottom of the ravine. Holding on for dear life. I realize that my mentality becomes a simple parody of the treatment and lifestyle of a high school. During the hours of the “bell dictator” I replace my lack of sleep for lack of control. The teacher has the last say now. The parent has the last say now. The GPA has the last say now.

During the twilight of these hours, however, I find refuge in my mind. I can come to terms with my faults. Realize what I have done wrong and right. Plan, and then plan to execute. I can imagine silly goals, realistic potentials, and tap into the most creative parts of my being. Yet, merely hours await until I must return to the fight. Return to the jungle of hormone influenced teenage world.

Tomorrow school resumes:

• AP English – It’s a disgrace that the career I most long to follow is at the dusk of the school’s hours. Hours I cannot function within and find difficult to stay awake. My physical limitations are the only thing keeping me from complete success in this class. I currently hold a B.
• APUSH – Whether its goofing around with a friend or not taking the teacher as seriously as I should, my childish persona outweighs my strive for intellectual knowledge of the past, present, and future of our society and economical trends. The tests seem intricate and greatly detailed. Some people get this class better than others. I have a D.
• Math – Simple really. I’m quiet here. No one of great interest to talk to and I find my personality would be way too upbeat to custom the majority. I have a C.
• APAC – Due to past incidents and tribulations, a theme of betrayal and deceit, and a growing hatred for the very seams of the curriculum. This class has become profoundly emotional. I have given pieces of my soul to every student in this classroom and have a strong connection for them all truly, yet I grow more and more hatred for the atmosphere itself. Something doesn’t add up. I have a D, barely.
• AP Psychology – This is the most mellow class. Closely imitating the atmosphere of a television sitcom, I cannot help but expect a “Boy Meets World” logo to suddenly appear on screen and a short sponsored commercial to follow. Every word I say in this class is perfectly rehearsed and delivered. This wins the prize of most comfortable. I have a C.
• Chemistry – Oddly enough, the class that has proven to have one of the  strictest teacher is also the one that I best feel most knowledgeable in. The topic of chemistry flows easily into my mental capacity and I take full responsibility for last quarters D for not doing my homework when I should.

This is the grounds I currently stand on with each of these classes.

This is what I resume tomorrow.