March 17, 2010
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The moment I inched myself through the door, my heart began to pound against my chest and my stomach turned as if I had completed a summersault in midair. I managed to sneak a quick peek at the clock. I convinced myself that I would only be forced to bear another forty-five minutes of what I considered the to be the definition of torture: History Class. It was not so much the class itself as it was my own stress level. Knowing that I had failed to turn in overdue assignments, somehow translated in my mind that I was considered not only a failure but a morally corrupt person. I avoided my teacher’s eye contact at all cost and looked downward at my desk, scribbling as many notes as I could possibly write without pausing until my hand began to throb. The teacher randomly selected names to answer review questions and decided to call my name. I felt the vomit crawling up my throat but used all my strength to swallow. Dazed and confused I quickly answered with the multiple choice letter C. The teacher abruptly responded that choice C was incorrect and called another name. The bell rang after a time that seemed to have lasted centuries. I immediately gathered my books and rushed out of the room to my locker and later my next class.

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