(Editor’s note: This is part of a recurring series of personal narratives by Gurjevan Bansal, a staff writer who will be sharing glimpses of her own unique life experiences. Any opinions expressed are not necessarily those of The Saber staff.)
Round one: No Beep.
Round two: Beep.
Round three: Beep.
When my school first implemented safety screenings, the machines decided to mess with me by making a game. Am I going to make her beep today? For two days the machine said, “yes, today is a great day to make her get searched.”
Each time I would get pulled to the side and my bag and I would be searched. Each time I stood there in a T-pose wondering, “Maybe today they’ll find the AK-47 that I have up somewhere where the sun doesn’t shine,” and each time I would come out clear and stand there baffled. Surprised. Shocked. Wow, I’m not holding a weapon on me, who would have guessed?
I’d pack up my stuff and head to class. Class. It’s not even the classes that I have but the people in those classes that can’t take a single hint for the life of them. If I have my crap pods in, tell me in what world does that tell you that I’m listening or interested in a conversation? You’re so two faced that you don’t even need another person’s responses in order to have a conversation.
With that I’m sure you can guess that my favorite activity is to be a fake hater. A fake hater is someone who enjoys to hate just to hate, not because they genuinely dislike someone. Why? Mental illness. If someone comes up to me talking crap about me, I’m the type to join in, very rarely does it matter to me who is being hated on. Just know, I am at the center of the hate and I am giving it my all.
This obsession of mine truly comes out during the beginning of the school year. This year I started my junior year. I already hate it. The first strategy that I implemented was to give people the silent treatment, and does that get fun. I have this one good friend of mine that loves to run her mouth about some very interesting topics and there is no way to make her angrier than just sitting there looking at her.
Staring into her soul.
Into her dazzling dirt brown eyes.
When she realizes and finally stops talking she makes a face and stares right back at me and then shakes her head as if trying to start a fight. The only problem is that the type of fight she means isn’t the type of fight we all consider to be a fight, it’s another fight. Yeah, she’s pretty scary.
