I hate exams. I hate the way doing ten GCSE subjects translates into doing seventeen exams. I hate the way the revision seems to have gone on forever and we haven’t even started. I hate being the “guinea-pig year” for the new syllabuses (syllabi?) and I hate the way even my teachers aren’t exactly sure what’s going on, and have to get in touch with the exam board to find out exactly what they do and do not teach. I hate the way the timetable dictates that my exams begin on a Thursday, with two of them on the same day, then a two week break without any of them and then all the others squished into a period of a fortnight of nothing but exams. On that note, I hate my exam board. Fuck you, AQA.
I hate the way I feel I don’t know anything, that nothing stays in my head, and I hate the horrible way I’m treating my family because I’m stressed. I hate the way the mock exams were only five months ago and I can’t remember anything I memorised then, and I hate the way I’m learning all this stuff, safe in the knowledge I will forget it straight away. I hate exams.
And most of all, I hate you - the little brat (daughter of family friend) who stormed into my room yesterday afternoon and poured two glasses of water onto my revision notes, which have now faded and become fucking illegible, and didn’t even apologise! Would “sorry” have been too much for you to say? I realise you’re only ten, and I’m sure the first glass of water, if not the second, was an accident, but didn’t you realise it was fucking rude to just laugh your little screwed-up head off and say, “You gotta do 'em again, ner-ner!”
“Bitch” is a word I reserve for older girls, usually, but fucking hell. You little brat. And I would have knocked your block off - but I didn’t. I was polite and charming and ushered you carefully out. And you told your lovely mother all about it, and what did she say?
“Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t mind, she can write them again.”
Well, fuck you, too.
And if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to write out a notebook full of French. Again.
Fuck.
