Freshman year of high school is like stepping into middle school’s chewed up, barfed out gum.
The bullying, bureaucracy, and conformity leaves a foul aftertaste.

High school tastes revolting, but at least it tastes slightly better
than middle school school.

But with an army of friends by your side is like having a team of medics who stabilize your throbbing pain of boredom with antibiotics.

As senior year approaches like a golden ship reaching the horizon, you sigh with relief.

The four-year reek of High School evaporates, and you sigh with relief, as you approach the podium to get your diploma.

“Thank god I made it,” I shout, as I snatch my diploma and toss my tasseled cap in the air.

Saying that high school is better than middle school, is like saying
that Lenin was better than Stalin.